


Petrol Hearts

by starkind



Series: Burning Rubber, Burning Hearts [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), DC Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Male Slash, Multi, NASCAR, Rivalry, Slow Build, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 38,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkind/pseuds/starkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adrenaline meets gasoline.<br/>Living in the fast lane gets any man's heart pumping faster.<br/>Some are loving the thrill of it...</p><p>...but will they be able to pull the brakes fast enough to avoid a frontal collision?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What if someone (me) with no ties to the whole world of NASCAR decides to throw their favorite characters into a stock car AU? 
> 
> Fair warnings first: A bit relationship-heavy. A little inaccurate when it comes to real life racing. Minor characters probably only get cameos. All powers used in this verse strictly horsepower. Still reading, but not sure if this works? Only one way to find out:
> 
> Ladies and gentlemen - start your engines!

Florida, Daytona International Speedway, 08th  February 2013

  
“0:40.336, Tones – 0.3s faster than your previous lap. Personal best so far at 223.127 mph!“  
  
Rhodes' voice rustled through the two-way-radio system in his ear. Stark grinned into his helmet.  
“Told ya, we should've changed that blasted crankshaft sucker ages ago. Much smoother this way.”  
  
The man on the other end took his best friend's jibe as good-natured as it was and let it slide. “We'll get all of those kinks worked out before the end of the week, don't worry.” Tony took his foot off the pedal as he entered pit lane, and came to a halt with a skidding motion. While he screwed off the steering wheel and put it up on the spartan dashboard, Rhodes materialized by his side.

He pushed his baseball hat a little higher and slipped the headphones around his neck. James then waited patiently until his friend had wiggled out through the window hole. Tony was quick to yank off his helmet and revealed a flat mop of sweated, dark hair underneath. He returned his comrade's grin and nudged Rhodes' shoulder with his. “I never worry, platypus, you know me. I'm gonna make Daytona my bitch like last season.”

Stark Industries Racing had been had dominating the national stock car scene, ever since Anthony Stark had inherited a fortune at the tender age of 21. Howard Stark had been a keen inventor and futurist; implementing not just his technical genius, but also the need for speed in his only son's heart and soul. When he and his wife Maria died in a hit and run on their way home, it left Tony behind an orphan before he was of legal age.  
  
To cope with his sorrow and pain, the young Stark heir had started his racing career right after turning 17. About fifteen years later, he was now looking at a total of twelve impressive championship titles. His nickname 'Loose Cannon' graced the hood of his blue-white Chevrolet SS with its big, bold number 13 ever since the founding of his own racing team back in 1997.  
  
These days, his company outfitted an entire team of over 30 people, including pit and support crew, with anything from custom-engineered, hand-built headphones over to two-way radios. Tony's team relied on state-of-the-art digital equipment; all individually designed by the very man sitting behind the wheel.

“At least have Happy look over that carburetor later on; something's not a hundred percent yet.” With a nod, Tony wedged the helmet under one arm and gave his racer a final once-over. “I think 235 mph might be possible, Rhodey. I mean, we've done 228 at Talladega last year. Maybe...” His best friend wiggled an outstretched index finger into his direction.  
  
“Oh no, you _won't_. Remember last time? J almost blew a fuse when you near went off the hinges.” A bright, cheerful laugh escaped the back of Tony's throat, and he shook his head in amusement. “Yeah, most priceless convo we've ever had during a race. I think our dear Jarvis is the only crew chief who ever yelled at his driver to 'slow the heck down'. Whenever Barton wants to rile him up, he's repeating his lovely posh British accent.”

Before Rhodey could answer, Tony's attention switched to a commotion at the entry gates of the track. Less than a week before the Sprint Unlimited, the kickoff event for the upcoming NASCAR season, many regular racing teams had already taken up their designated quarters on and around the Daytona racetrack. Rhodes squinted underneath his baseball hat through the afternoon sun.  
  
“Who's that?”  
Both of them watched three black SUVs roll onto the track, followed by two large, black trucks.  
“Dunno. Fresh meat apparently.”  
  
Tony pulled the zipper of his racing suit down to his chest, cracked his neck, and watched how the 18-wheelers with a big, bold logo that looked like a trident lowered their loading ramps. Like busy ants, over a dozen workers got out and began to bustle around to and fro between the two trucks. Stark pointed his chin towards the ruckus. “Wayne Enterprises Racing, huh? Now that sounds like fun!”  
  
Both of them continued to watch the spectacle from afar with keen interest. A couple of mechanics, most of them also dressed in black, scrambled into the cargo spaces of the semi-trailer trucks. No five minutes later, powerful engine sounds could be heard, and two Ford Fusion models in black and white rolled down the platform. Rhodes cast his best friend a sideways glance. “Looks like there’s a new kid in town.”

Amidst all the dark-clad helpers, a tall man dressed in a white racing suit appeared from around the truck. He had jet black hair and striking facial features. Determined he went for the white Ford and began to talk with two mechanics, gesturing at the track and back to the car. Tony cocked his head, humming. “And a rather handsome one as well.” James nudged his shoulder with a stern frown. “Don't let Steve hear you.”

A roll of large brown eyes, then Tony chucked his helmet over to his friend, who caught it with ease. “What? C'mon, I'm allowed to appreciate eye-candy when I see it. I'm still a one guy's guy.” A second later, another driver hopped out of the truck's driver cabin. He, too, wore a similar racing suit, though his was bunched down to the waist and exposed a tight, black t-shirt underneath.

Even if he was not quite as tall as his teammate, his physique was equally cut and athletic, and his whole posture nothing but straight-up commanding. As he glanced around to examine the surroundings behind dark shades, his gaze came to rest upon Tony and Rhodey. For a couple of seconds, the man stared into their direction, before he turned and walked over to the matte black Ford Fusion with brisk, long strides.

Without thinking, Tony gave a low whistle between closed teeth.  
“Things just keep getting better and better. Ooh, wee.”  
Rhodes grabbed a handful overall and pulled him along with a few muttered words under his breath.  
  
“C'mon now, off with you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Florida, Daytona International Speedway, 16th  February 2013

  
“Ready to go out there and show them what we're made of?”  
  
Clark's deep voice shook Bruce out of his meditative mode. He blinked his surroundings back into focus and glanced upwards to where his teammate stood. A rare, sparse smile then crossed his lips. “I'm glad we agreed on _you_ taking the white suit; you look positively superhero-material in it.” Kent returned the smirk and struck a quick model-esque pose as he put his arms akimbo.  
  
“Minus the cape. Which would have, respectively, made _you_ Darth Vader, all dressed in black.” Bruce rose from his seat in a fluent, graceful motion and zipped the upper part of his suit shut. “I always favored the dark side of the force anyhow. Everyone's out and in position?” Clark nodded and handed him his helmet before they left their racing motorcoach for the track.  
  
Bruce Wayne had established a name for himself in his early twenties; coming up through the ranks at his home track, the Gotham Speedway. Even though his long-gone parents would have had something else in mind for their son, considering he was still on his way to completing his degree in Mechanical Engineering at Harvard, Bruce's heart and mind had been into racing ever since.

After graduating from university, he began to win late model races at short tracks around the state between 2003 and 2008. Once Bruce had given an unplanned, but nonetheless impressive showing at a regional stock car race in Gotham back in 2009, NASCAR seemed to be the next logical step. As the only heir to the Wayne fortune, Bruce did not need long to start funding his own racing team.

With a hand-picked selection of crew members he knew he could trust upon, he soon convinced a veritable jock by the name of Clark Kent to become his teammate around the track. Kent was from a small town in Kansas, and two years older than Wayne. The two young men had shared some dorm time back at Harvard, and Clark had always been eager to do something other than to fret behind a desk for the rest of his life.  
  
It had not taken much arm-twisting from Bruce to make him come along for the ride.

“I think the two of them look like chess figures just waiting on making their first move.”  
  
A deep, distinctive voice greeted both drivers when they arrived at pit lane. Lucius Fox, crew chief of Wayne Enterprises Racing, grinned along with his cheeky statement and flashed white teeth at the duo. Next to him, a tall man in his late sixties crossed his hands behind his back and nodded. “A black and a white king sounds not that far off indeed, Lucius.” Clark bit his lip to stifle a laugh and shot his friend a sideways glance.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Good thing you didn't make me queen, Alfred, or there'd be hell to pay. Close call there.” Pennyworth was their team manager and had been with the Wayne family ever since Bruce was born. The Brit and former RAF medic had been close with Thomas Wayne; in his days a notable doctor, before a tragic accident took both his and his wife Martha's life when Bruce was eight.

From then on, Alfred had seen to raising Bruce up by himself. Once the latter had declared his love for living in the fast lane, Pennyworth always made sure to remain by his side and patch him up after each drag race. At Bruce Wayne's deadpan retort, merry chuckles erupted. It prompted a fifth man of medium height to join their little circle, even as commotion around them introduced the final fifteen minutes of the race.

He wore thick glasses, a mustache, and a pair of heavy, professional headphones. “Is anyone in this joint doing what they're supposed to be doing, or am I the only one?” Bruce and Clark glanced at each other, and Fox tipped the hem of his WE Racing baseball hat. “Jim being the voice of reason, as always.” James Gordon gave a meek snarl and adjusted his glasses with thumb and middle finger. “That's what I'm here for, aren't I?”  
  
Alfred unclasped his hands to give an amiable pat on the other man's shoulder. “And we could not ask for a better spotter, Commissioner. Come on, Lucius, let us move up there.” He pointed to their designated seats up in the crew's box. Fox nodded and followed him, though not without giving each young driver a firm shake of the hand. “You're gonna make us proud, boys, I can feel it. We'll be keeping an eye out for you. Or six.”  
  
Once the two senior partners had taken off, Bruce eyed their spotter again. Jim Gordon, sometimes called “Commissioner” because of his meticulous ways of getting drivers to victory lane unharmed, had 25 years of age and experience on him. His incorruptible ways within the racing scene were well-known, and Bruce had been glad to convince Jim to get onto his team, back in 2010.  
  
“You've done Daytona before, Gordon, give us tight supervision for the first few rounds, until we're secure enough in the field ourselves.” Jim nodded at his young employer and at the latter's teammate. “Stick to Fox' fuel conservation strategy, and take your final pit stop 53 laps from the finish. Feather the throttle and draft off other cars as often as you can, to save enough fuel to make it without an additional pit stop.“

Both Kent and Wayne nodded with eager determination.  
Gordon's glasses blazed in the bright sunlight.  
“And I'll make sure you'll stay the hell away from wrecking these damn good cars.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Florida, Daytona International Speedway, 16th  February 2013  
  


“Everyone ready to kick some real good ass today?”  
  
Tony clapped his hands to go with a round of pep talk, once he had adjusted his helmet one last time. “Checkers or wreckers, boys, let's have fun, let's go get a win!” Steve and Clint chimed in to make use of the final few minutes until things got serious; cracking jokes and releasing underlying tension. Within the SI team, the amount of radio chatter varied just like its individual personalities.  
  
Drivers like Tony shared their observations and concerns in detail with both Rhodey, their spotter, and Jarvis, their crew chief. The latter had earned his nickname 'Vision' by being able to moderate communication between drivers and pit crew like no one else. Jarvis remained in direct contact with his drivers throughout the race, monitoring lap times, track fuel usage, and tire wear.  
  
Steve Rogers, called Captain in his red Chevy with the adorning number 1, wished to be independent for the most part, except for when he experienced severe technical problems. He did, however, usually stay in contact with Tony via radio. The two of them were racing together since 2011 and had taken their relationship from strictly professional to intimate only a year later.

Clint Barton, called Hawkeye, limited his talk to absolutely necessary comments and questions. His dark blue Chevy with its number 48 and a paint job on the bumper saying 'Eye On You', was usually the one with the highest number of crashes or spins on track, mock-earning him his nickname.  
  
“Two by two, yeah, they're organizing pretty good out there, who'd know. The 21 and the 22.” James Rhodes' voice was the first thing Tony heard, right after the pace car was gone. “Not so fucking newbies right there, eh?” Steve Rogers chuckled into his earpiece. “We're gonna chew them out alright.” After the first half of the race, however, Clint Barton could be heard cursing.  
  
“I got the right front pretty hard, tore up pretty good. Tony lost control of his car up there.” Rhodes slammed a fist into his palm and muttered some curses. Then Stark himself piped in. “Sorry guys, I'll take the blame for that one. 100 % my fault. I was tight, and it just sucked me up.” Jarvis' voice was calm and free of judgment as usual. “10-4. First time by, guys. Clint – get down to pit lane. Tony – think you can wing it?”

If Tony Stark was honest with himself, he had been distracted by the way the shiny white and the black matte Ford Fusion models had been smashing the scene despite their utter rookie status. Both drivers had started out strong, and kept a solid grip on the fourth and fifth position of the race. “No chance in hell, Cap's gonna have to bring it. Take it home for me, Steve-O.”

Steve set into action and Rhodes was in his ear. “Shake and bake there, man, one at a time. You're reeling them in pretty quick there, Steve.” Rogers smiled inside his helmet and increased speed ever so slightly. Rhodes gave him a final go. “No pressure, Steve - five back, bring that baby here for 2 more times.” And so the man from Brooklyn did. Standing high up on his car, Rogers waved at the cheering crowd.

“Way to fight all day, boys. Thank you!”  
  
In the end, Lucius Fox' strategy also paid off. Bruce came in fourth place, with Clark following him on the five. Neither of them cared that pole position belonged to SI Racing and its driver Steve Rogers. Clark held a balled fist out of his window and was met with a thumbs up from Bruce. "Outstanding job, the whole race team! Show them we belong here; welcome to the next round!”  
  
Alfred's voice resounded through the speakers, sounding nothing short of a proud father.  
“Team effort, guys, everyone did their best! Thank you.”  
Bruce's voice, while not as enthusiastic as Pennyworth's, held enough pride for anyone to hear.

* * *

Steve Rogers was not about to cherish Victory Lane to the cheer of his team for long. He sought out his teammate, only to earn himself a slow clap from Tony, who was still pissed at himself and his failure. With folded legs, Steve hunkered down next to him onto the steps of their motor coach. After he had placed his helmet aside the blonde nudged his friend's shoulder once, then twice.

“Stop fretting there, space cadet, shit happens to the best of us.”  
  
Steve's voice shook him out of his reverie, as Tony watched the exultation at WE Racing nearby. “Sorry for fucking up. Especially here. Daytona! God, I could kick my own butt real hard.” A warm breath next to the shell of his ear. Tony shivered, both from surprise and sensuality. “Don't, I have other plans with it later on. Much better plans.” Stark then swallowed and glimpsed around.

Lots of reporters were about to get their hands on Rogers to inquire about his winning streak.  
Seeing the smoldering look on Steve's sweat-laced face, Tony raised an eyebrow.  
“How... much later are we talking?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

After racing the day before, Tony had to stop by CNN in Miami for a promotion for a TV special, and for an interview with Rachel Nicols.Dressed in a casual but quite expensive combo of designer sneakers, t-shirt, and jeans, Tony beamed at the reporter with undisguised self-assurance. "Clearly, if you want to play in NASCAR these days, it takes big money. I doubt other guys spend less than $75 million a year, so yeah, you know the drill...”

From where they sat on a private jet over to Tennessee and watched the coverage of this year's season, Bruce gave an enervated groan that echoed through the vast cabin of the Gulfstream. Clark laughed at his open annoyance. He knew WE Racing's budget for the current season exceeded $200 million. Bruce Wayne had acknowledged it without batting an eyelid and a deft signature of approval.

On screen, Nicols nodded along after letting Stark talk some more about his team's innovative spirit. “So how about this year's new, stiff competition? Will it make things more interesting for Stark Industries Racing? As we've seen, Wayne Enterprises Racing has had a terrific start and some vital momentum.” At that, Stark openly grinned like a Cheshire Cat.  
  
“We're not about to get sidetracked by either the regulars or the rookies in the field. And besides, aerodynamics is for those who cannot manufacture good engines.” The brunette reporter responded with an equally exaggerated, telegenic smile. “I think a great season is coming upon us. Tony Stark, live here on CNN. We'll be right back...” With a click on the remote, Bruce switched off the television. Clark pursed his lips.  
  
“Hey, you could've at least waited for the weather report. They said it might rain.”  
Bruce responded with an unconcerned shrug and threw the remote over to where Clark sat.  
“I'd rather go and gouge my left eye out with a pencil than watch this shit any longer.”  
  
He then put his long legs up on the unoccupied seat in front, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes.

* * *

On race day, Tony woke to the sounds of rain pelting down on the roof of his private motorcoach. Behind him, one of Steve’s warm and strong arms was encircling his waist, and he could feel the other man starting to stretch. Both lay still for some more moments, then Tony yawed out loud. “Hope you brought your floaties along, dear hubcap, cause it's pouring.” A stubble-covered chin rubbed along his neck.

“I'm sure they are going to cancel the race.” Steve's hands then began to roam underneath the shorter man’s t-shirt. “Which means we can sleep in some more.” His ministrations elicited a moan from his partner, and Tony twisted around to face him. “Rhodey might come in.. or Obie.” His voice started to hitch when Steve's fingers reached lower. In no time, his pajama pants slid down to the floor. “We'll just have to be faster then.” 

Half an hour later, Steve could be heard whistling Tom Jones' 'It's not unusual' under the shower, and Tony had just poured his second cup of coffee when someone rapped at the door. At the sight of an unshaven Stark in his bathrobe with untidy hair, James Rhodes' brows furrowed. “Why aren't you dressed and ready? Team meeting in 15.” Tony scratched at a spot behind his ear and slurped off his near overflowing mug.  
  
“Been busy digging for my oilskin. Seriously, Rhodey, we're not getting out there today, c'mon.”  
James stepped aside to have Tony catch a glimpse at the gray, but dry sky outside.  
“We _are_ , and _you_ need to get your butt in gear. Ten minutes!”  
  
As soon as he had closed the door, Stark yelled for his lover.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Tennessee, Bristol Motor Speedway, 17th  March 2013

  
“I got the first raindrops on the windshield. Big, fat drops. Are we sure there's no red flag out?” Clark's voice sounded more than skeptical over the comm. In an instant, Jim Gordon was in his ear. “There's none. Stay away from the pack, though, the last thing we need is a wreck. When it rains, it pours.” As it turned out, the commissioner should remain right, and the floodgates opened soon after.

It left Bruce and Clark to experience the first so-called Big One of the season. The mega crash scenario occurred because caution had been too slow for the drastic weather change, and there had been no yellow flag beforehand. Once the red flag for inclement weather had gotten out, the majority of the stock cars had tried to make it back to their pits, with devastating consequences.

Skies were dark, aquaplaning had set in, and with no tread, it resulted in two-thirds of the cars to turn into an unrecognizable heap of twisted metal and rubber. Both WE and SI Racing were lucky enough to get out unharmed. Forced to leave the useless vehicles underneath their respective tarps, the drivers made their way back to pit lane on foot.

Trotting along the huge, wet racetrack with its now empty spectator's ranks, all of them soon looked like sodden dogs. Being on the opposite side of the track, far away from Steve, Tony soon recognized the lone, black-clad figure of Bruce Wayne marching a few yards in front of him. Unconsciously he hurried up his steps some more to catch up. The other man had taken off his helmet, unmindful of the steady if mild downpour.

“Where's that PA with an umbrella when you need her, eh?”  
  
The taller man whipped around at the unfamiliar voice appearing at his left. Bruce took in Stark's gleaming rows of white teeth but nevertheless kept on walking. Seeing he got no answer, Tony deliberately stayed by Wayne's side, matching his fast stride for the pit boxes. “Should've kept your helmet on.” Not in the mood for mindless conversation, Wayne at least was bothered enough to grunt out something that sounded like “Just water.”

His brisk tone must have resonated within Tony, because two seconds later, Stark pried off his helmet as well. He did it with a small shake of the head that sent his matted, dark mop of hair flopping over his forehead, and gave his moody walking partner a triumphant look. “Think you're right. Just like every time there's a rain delay, there's always an early wreck. Let me tell you - one gets used to it.”

All emotionless, Wayne glared ahead and kept his pace. His own hair hung limp and plastered upon his forehead. “The caution lights weren't on at the right time. That's what. Amateurs.” Tony grinned a carefree, highly annoying grin. “Just your average, typical tin top carnage. You win some, lose some, and wreck some.” The other man then stared at him, disgusted at so much open indifference.  
  
“Mistakes like this are a waste of resources, time, and money. For any racing team.” Stark waved his arm up and down Wayne's physique. “Guys like you certainly can afford a little round of wreck-a-bitch here and there. I know I can.” That got the Gothamite to stop walking on the spot. His brows furrowed into a resentful, wavy line. “Guys like you are what give NASCAR races such a bad rep.”

Tony practically leered at him as he hopped in front of Bruce and invaded his personal space. “Oho, reaction! But na-ah. Guys like _me_ are what this fucking race is _made_ of, stud muffin, take notes.” A pair of blazing hazel-green eyes narrowed. Wayne rapidly blinked against the rain in his lashes. "You really think you're all that and more, Stark, don't you? Let me tell you something...”  
  
Bruce's jaw was set tight, making his cheekbones stand out in the harsh floodlights from above. “... you're nothing but a spoiled brat inside an overpriced bucket of bolts. Grow some manners.” Flabbergasted Tony watched how Bruce sidestepped him. In no time, Stark's face twisted in anger. “Screw you, Wayne, honestly. Go grow a fucking sense of humor, you nitwit!”  
  
He was left to glare at the disappearing broad back of Bruce Wayne and his raised one-finger-salute.

* * *

That evening, Steve and Tony got in a late night workout at Stark's workshop, before an early testing run the next day.  
  
When Rogers had to prevent his boyfriend from slipping up during his bench press of 170 lbs the third time in a row, he called a timeout. “What's wrong?” With a heave, Tony slammed the iron bar back into its stand and swung into a sitting position. “Nothing, hubcap. Just pissed at that Wayne dude. Guy's worse than the Grim Reaper. I really wanna cook him out next time. Him and that partner of his with the permanent halo.”  
  
Rogers put a palm on the shorter man's shoulder. “I don't know why you're so fixated on him. Wayne I mean. He's a nobody. He might have the money and the cars, but he doesn't stand a chance, so why bother?” Steve then pinched his collarbone so hard, it made Tony all but wince from the pressure. “Guess you're right.” He lowered back down and put a leg on each side of the bench. “Spot me again?”  
  
Steve's eyes wandered from his splayed legs up to his face and back.  
  
“That, too.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Texas, Texas Motor Speedway, April 10th  2013  


The track for the annual Texas 500 race measured 1.5 miles in total. It was banked 24 degrees in the turns, of oval design with the front straightaway jutting slightly outward. Having never raced much outside of Gotham and Metropolis before, Bruce and Clark had wanted to test out its conditions at the earliest convenience, which had led to a scheduling conflict with the team from SI Racing.

Forced to wait for another thirty minutes, Bruce and Clark prepped inside their transporter in silence. Wayne usually needed space and quiet whenever he put on his fire suit, be that for a race or for training, and Kent knew he was going through all the motions in his head. He himself would walk around the perimeter outside the garage area to check the surroundings and get some fresh air; his own way of clearing his mind.  
  
Ten minutes before their turn, Kent went looking for his teammate. By now, Bruce stood behind the fencing with arms crossed and watched their predecessors. A calculating look lay on his face, visible even from behind his aviator shades. He did not move an inch when Clark came to stand next to him, both observing the final car.

Tony Stark was just blazing through a turn, leaving a gust of dusty air in their faces upon whooshing past at high velocity.

“Doing the turn at 200 takes some balls, you gotta admit.”  
Bruce snorted at Clark's mild-mannered remark. His eyes remained glued to Stark's Chevrolet.  
“His balls are bigger than his brain, that's what.”

Kent refrained to mention how Wayne was only too fond of such daredevil maneuvers himself.

* * *

Waiting between test runs was always a tiresome matter when adjustments needed to be made.  
  
Usually, Tony spent those times inside his car and on the phone, for the most part, interacting with Rhodey or Jarvis via hand signs or comm, if necessary. He would later go over data with his trusted mechanic Hogan to work out the final kinks. At present, there was a lot of media lingering around after SI Racing had completed their rounds. Surprisingly enough, they were also showing a huge interest in Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent.  
  
From his parking space at the box, Tony put his hands on the steering wheel, his chin atop, and eyed the duo. Wayne was acting out all nonchalant and charming, making reporters and Kent alike hang onto every word he said. It subsequently made Tony roll his eyes. Knowing his way around the scene for years, he was near certain the reporters' only highlight would be the topic of custom paint schemes.

In the mood for a little mischief, Tony, therefore, slipped out of his car and casually sauntered over.

“Are you talking about aerodynamics and drag coefficients there, Wayne? All you need to know about Sprint is to pedal the metal.” He chewed on his gum and jammed his hands into the pockets of his fire suit. Something feral lay in Bruce's gaze at the unsolicited interruption. However, he just made a suave gesture at the reporter. “As I was saying - we've learned a lot just by watching other racing team's mistakes over the past years.”

It was Clark Kent who stole a glimpse at Tony and could not help but to smirk at Stark's irritation of being ignored. “I wouldn't do it if I were you.” From where he had glared at the reporter and Wayne, both too engrossed in a conversation to pay attention to him, Tony gnawed at his lip and shot Clark a challenging look. “Wouldn't do what?” Kent squared his shoulders and straightened up on purpose.

“Piss Bruce off. You're bound to regret it sooner or later.”

Even if the difference in height between them was largely in Clark's favor, Tony Stark did not back down. Instead, he got up on his toes, crossed his arms and gave the best shit-eating grin he could muster up. “Listen up baby blues, they still need to invent that _one_ thing that makes me lose any of my beauty sleep at night...” He put up a supercilious expression and pushed his jaw forward.

Tony then threw a final glimpse over to where Bruce just saw the reporter off, only to have to deal with another one. “... so let me tell you as to how things are rolling in this business. Back then, when you were still doing laps in a pedal car, it was called 'Have at it, boys', and even if people tell you those days are over, believe me, sonny, they are not. Better watch out. Both of you.”

Not bothering to wait for a reply, Tony cast him one final, lethal smile, turned on his heel and left.  
  
When Bruce Wayne learned about the brief conversation later on, Stark and his racing team were long gone. It left the Gothamite to seethe along for hours, even if Kent tried his best to get him to laugh the incident off. “No, Clark, we don't let him threaten us. He's gonna have his ass handed to him on a silver platter!”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Texas, Texas Motor Speedway, April 13th, 2013  
  
  
The pre-race activities at Texas Motor Speedway resembled something like pageantry, at least to Bruce Wayne. He more or less suffered through a special performance of local dancers, before he and Clark had to get ready for the parade of drivers. NASCAR tradition had it that each of the teams and its drivers had to get introduced to the owners of the respective track.

"This is a complete and utter travesty."  
  
From where they sat side by side in the back of a pickup truck, Clark gave a secret pat to Bruce's thigh. "It's mostly for the fans. Smile, Bruce, at least a little." He then raised a hand to wave at a couple of women who cheered at them. With a sigh, the Gothamite's scowl lessened and gave way to a formidable, if thoroughly fake grin. Kent rewarded him with an appreciative nod and smile. "See? Knew you could do it."

Between gleaming white teeth, Bruce then whispered for Clark to hear. "I just remembered the way you looked when I made you come this morning." Scandalized, Clark whipped his head towards him so fast that a curl of hair fell over his forehead. An adorable flush spread out all over his cheeks, to which Bruce's eyebrow twitched in faint amusement.

In front of them, the truck that held Stark, Rogers, and Barton resembled a huge party zone on four wheels. All three drivers were standing side by side, holding on to the roof and cheering the crowd on. Stark and Barton were moshing along to the loud music -some obnoxious punk rock, heavy metal cover- from their truck's sound system, while Rogers limited himself to saluting the present troops.

Military officials then brought the flag in, and all drivers and crew members lined up beside their racers in formation. No sooner than the mandatory prayer had been given, the National Anthem echoed over the track. Duly mouthing the lyrics along, Bruce glowered at the Chevy number 13 standing a couple of feet away. It did not take long for Tony Stark to catch his stare and break into a huge, shit-eating grin.  
  
When he even had the audacity to blow Bruce a kiss, the latter could not help but switch some of the lyrics with the words 'fuck you'. All it elicited from Stark was an even bigger grin, and a raised up, gloved middle finger he used to mock-scratch at a spot near his ear. Wayne's nostrils flared as he cast him a withering stare before he tore his gaze away.  
  
As soon as the notes of the Star Spangled Banner faded, a small division of stealth bombers performed a quick flyover of the track. Crew members began to put the finishing touches on the cars, while drivers chatted or stretched. Clark and Bruce stood with their helmets on in a half circle with Gordon and Fox, discussing the last strategic details, when the loud howl of engines cut right through their conversation.  
  
Stark and Barton were cranking up their cars in turns. A wave of burnt rubber wavered over to WE Racing's pit box.

“What a bunch of morons.”  
Gordon's matter-of-fact statement caused Bruce to snap his visor shut.  
“And there's only one way to deal with those.”

At his curt nod, Clark also got ready and slipped into his seat. He thanked the mechanics for fixing the steering wheel and glimpsed at the car of his friend in front. Upon the latest addition to the matte black Ford, Clark actually laughed out loud. Bruce's rear bumper now read 'Bat out of Hell' in big bold, white letters for everybody to see. Chuckling, Kent pressed the comm on his steering wheel. “Nice one, Bruce. Who came up with that?”  
  
A split second later, his teammate's gruff voice answered him. “Courtesy of Alfred Pennyworth.” A pause. “Before you ask – I picked yours.” Stupefied, Clark frowned. “Mine? I don't have one.” The sharp smirk was palpable over the two-way radio. “Now you do. Always mind your surroundings, Kent.” Clark grinned with a minuscule shake of the head as he flipped the auxiliary switches in the middle of the dash.

“Well, Mister Wayne, what does it say, now that I can't look at it until post-race?”  
Said billionaire took his time answering. When he did, a touch of fondness resounded in his voice.  
“Faster than a speeding bullet.”  
  
Clark made tutting noise and twiddled with the gearshift. “Pressure, pressure. Nothing like setting the bar real high.” Looking up, he then saw Bruce raise his right hand, giving him the Hook em Horns. "Start living up to your full potential, Clark. Let's rock Texas." No sooner than the mandatory "Gentlemen, start your engines!" had hollered over the track through the speakers, Bruce's Ford sprang to life with a loud, gnarling exhaust sound.

All drivers then cranked it up in unison, awaiting their turn to follow the pace car out onto the track. After several parade laps, they weaved back and forth, getting heat in their tires, until the green flag got waved, and the race was on. About halfway through, Wayne and Kent were averaging between 7th and 10th place, whereas Rogers and Stark had settled around 5th and 2nd.

At the SI pit box, James Rhodes eyed the readouts of the front wheel cameras on his comrades' cars with anticipation. “Alright, Steve, switches where you need them, keep it nice and easy down there. You got this.” Said man wrestled with his steering wheel when the car in front of him swerved too close for comfort. “I don't know, James, think front left is too tight for my taste. I feel I get loose real easy here.”

He should remain correct, as his Chevrolet number 1 then lost its position to three other cars, making him fall back onto position 8. The only thing that mollified Rogers was how Tony had fought off his contender and sat in pole position. In another box, things also did not go fully according to plan. So far, the seven WE Racing pit crew members who were allowed over the wall to service the cars had been working like a well-oiled machine.

With their high-powered impact wrenches, they changed all four tires of both Clark and Bruce's Ford Fusions and refueled them in under fifteen seconds. Despite their efforts, Clark's Ford experienced an engine failure and went up in smoke in round 475. A lot of talk erupted over the line; from Jim Gordon wanting more info to Lucius Fox recalculating their chances. Kent's quick status report confirmed their suspicions.   
  
“Yep, just blew up, son of a...”

Bruce then comm'ed their spotter. “Let me know what happened to Clark's motor there, and if I can do anything to help.” Instead of Gordon, Lucius Fox answered him after a couple of seconds. “He said failure on the 22. Probably the transmission. Nothing you could do to help, Bruce.” Kent whose car had come to a steaming halt down near pit lane, addressed his teammate. “Bruce - just keep looking forward, we're good here.”  
  
From his position on the 6th place Bruce Wayne then shifted gears, determined. “Time to set the record straight. See you at the finish line, Clark.” Using the method of bump drafting to create opportunities for passing, Bruce made his way all up to pole position, until only one Chevrolet sat in front of him, persistent. At the Gothamite's steady flow of tailgating moves, the commentators' voices almost cracked.

“Bruce Wayne brings them to the line, everybody! Number 21 has a big run, he's going for pole and picking up the Number 13 at the top.”  
  
No sooner than Rhodes and Jarvis had tried to steer Tony clear of his unrelenting nemesis, Stark's rear wheels lost traction going too fast, thus causing him to slow down. Wayne saw his chance, took it, and surged ahead to pass the finish line 0.045 seconds before him. The crowd jeered at the unexpected change of events, only to break into a wave of surprise applause once the black Ford got shown up on the big screens.  
  
It was then that Bruce Wayne's black-gloved, raised and balled fist could be seen.

The post-race Victory Lane show was a first for any member of Wayne Enterprises Racing, but Lucius Fox struck a splendid figure giving interview after interview. Sweated and less-talkative Bruce Wayne grumbled his way through what he found a tiresome waste of time and left for his nearby motorcoach as soon as possible. Over at SI Racing, Tony Stark was still being interviewed by some reporters from motorsport.com.  
  
"It's alright. Second place's certainly no bueno, but I'm gonna rock the stage next time. We'll have fun.”

Clint Barton sat upon the bonnet of his car, dangled his legs, and popped one colorful m&m after another into his mouth while watching the spectacle in the box next to them. When Steve marched past, Clint held out the m&m's into his direction. “Cheer up, Cap. At least Tony's got the #2.” Rogers declined the sweets with a brisk shake of the head. “Fuckin' Wayne should've never gotten pole. He just got lucky, that's all.”  
  
With a click of the tongue, Barton lowered his arm and grabbed another handful of peanuts. “Sucks big time, but you gotta admit that Wayne owned Tony good back there.” Steve's hand clenched around the mouth vent of his helmet. Without another word, he turned and walked off towards his trailer. Before he entered, Rogers threw Clint a for him rather sinister, final look.  
  
“We'll see about that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'obnoxious punk rock, heavy metal cover' could very well be Children Of Bodom's 'Looking Out My Backdoor' version of the good old CCR classic.. or not. At least it helped with writing/envisioning this scene. And the song's actually kinda catchy *g*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for spotting any familiar quotes in this one ;)  
> ETA: warnings for foul language (as an afterthought, because I am a terribly heedless person)

North Carolina, Charlotte Motor Speedway, May 26th, 2013

  
Steve kept his unspoken promise to Tony no more than six weeks later, at the Coca-Cola 600.  
  
The longest race on NASCAR's schedule started around 6 pm, with the sun still up high, and would end sometime under the floodlights. They were already going strong into lap 593 out of 600, and Bruce Wayne for his part was aggravated beyond belief. All cooling fans of the Ford Fusion had long since stopped working for whatever reason; cranking the temperature in his cockpit up to nearly 120 degrees.  
  
The diminished ability to see inside the full-face helmet and restraint devices, as usual, did nothing for his orientation, and most annoying of all was the ever-present Steve Rogers hot on his tail. Thanks to Clark's foresight and his own recklessness, Bruce had been able to keep the second place for the past fifty rounds, and continued to push the metal hard, even when going for refueling measures.  
  
It eventually earned him a reprimanding comment from NASCAR's managing director via comm.  
“Number 21, too fast on pit road, section eight!”  
Sweat ran down Wayne's back as he tipped the accelerator with a mumbled curse and shifted gears.  
  
Tony Stark was again heading for pole position, and Bruce was not about to let that happen. He had been racing Rogers for second, near spinning him a couple of times, but unable to shake him off. During the last lap, two crashes then occurred behind him; a four-car wreck in turn two, and a six-car wreck in the tri-oval. Ultimately, it extended the race to a green-white-checker finish.

Just when Jim Gordon was giving his drivers an overview, Steve Rogers made his move.  
  
His Chevy blazed past Bruce at an unforeseen, tight angle, causing the Gothamite to jerk his steering wheel to the hard right. The centrifugal force pushed the Ford toward the outside of a curve. Grating sounds, flying sparks, and Wayne's car was turned into the wall. Short a functioning front axle, bonnet, and the right front tire, it bounced off the asphalt to come to a slithering halt on the green grass of the backstretch.  
  
Inside the culprit's Chevy with the number 1, Steve also had to give up most of the control of his vehicle, taking to spins, and coming to a halt about thirty feet away from his wrecking victim. In less than five seconds, Bruce Wayne had scrambled out of his car and yanked off his helmet. Around them, members of both racing teams were coming up into their direction.

Glad to see both drivers unscathed, they were quick to try and form a barrier between an irate Gothamite and a relaxed-looking Rogers who also had climbed out of his wreck. Clark Kent, having being offed in a previous crash scenario involving the nefarious Clint Barton, was quick to get over to where the impending danger was about to go down.  
  
Over the speakers, the announcer just congratulated Tony Stark on his victory, but Clark only paid attention to the red-faced hurricane that was his boyfriend. “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, hey – it's cool, it's cool.” Wayne ignored him as he threw his helmet aside with force, jabbed a vicious index finger at the blonde from SI Racing and approached him like a raging bull. Clark had to be fast to lurch forward and grab a hold of his partner.

“I'm gonna fuckin' kick your fuckin' ass, Rogers! I want you off the fuckin' track, you prick!”  
  
Steve also took off his helmet, spread his arms, and glimpsed around at the many spectators and crew members. “So sorry, Wayne.” His amused, unapologetic expression enraged Bruce even more. “No, don't just be sorry! Think for one fuckin' second! What the fuck where you thinking, man, are you professional or not? Do I fuckin' go around and come up on your... - no, Clark, don't shut me up!“

Bruce raged on in Kent's grip, even as the tall man from Kansas tried to talk him down, clasping him by the shoulders. “I'm not shutting you up, Bruce, just... calm down a little, okay?“ Standing on his toes, Wayne continued to lunge for Rogers who was surrounded by the SI pit team. “Like I said, it was bad luck. Not that hard to understand now, is it?” More people gathered around them.

In the distance, Jim Gordon could be seen getting down from his pit box spot, to walk along with Lucius Fox over to the source of commotion. Clint Barton also had sauntered over to offer potential support of his teammate, seeing Tony was held up at Victory Lane. Despite Clark making use of his body advantage by pushing Bruce back, Wayne still raved on. “What the fuck is it with you, Rogers? What don't _you_ fuckin' understand?”  
  
Steve ran a hand through his hair and passed his helmet on to some mechanic with a nodded thanks.“I was looking at the flags, Wayne, I just didn't see you. Happens.” With flaring nostrils, Bruce swung around to search for his trusted spotter's eyes. “Fuck's sake, man, you're an amateur. Jim, you have something to say to this prick?” Gordon curled his mustache with a shake of the head and adjusted his glasses. “I didn't see it happen, Bruce.”  
  
Feeling like he was fighting a losing battle, the Gothamite brushed off Clark's arms. He pointed at Steve again, teeth clenched and brows furrowed with unabashed fury. “Stay off me and my fuckin' car, man, for fuck's sake. You're un-fuckin'-believable.” Mumblings from within his crew erupted, and Bruce near blew another gasket at their timid question. “No, let's _not_ take a fuckin' minute, let's _go_ again!”

Clint Barton then felt the need to step in while Steve was shaking his head with a supercilious grin. “Good adjustments, Wayne, okay? For real. Honestly, just walk for five seconds, man, Jesus Christ.” His comment had the opposite effect on Bruce, and Clark again had to put a cautionary hold on his chest. “I don't need any fuckin' walking! He needs to stoptrashing my goddamn laps!”  
  
Eventually, Clark's calming persona and his steady grip on Bruce's upper body did the trick. “Alright, everyone. Lucius - can you get the crew to take Bruce's car into pit lane, please. What's left of it I mean.” Wayne then allowed Kent to steer him away, though not without casting Rogers a final, rotten stare. “Seriously, man, you and me, we're fuckin' done professionally. Fuckin' ass!”

In the end, it took a solid piano bar and a lot of muscle to get under the wreckage of Bruce's Ford.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA II: I shall stand corrected and give official credit to the 2009 leaked 'Bale rant' on the set of Terminator because it might not have been all that clear from reading this chapter (That Bale Out remix still is fun to listen to ;))


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Li'l bit of DC-stud-boys luvin in the first part..

Clark waved off both Jim and Lucius and all but propelled his fuming teammate into their big, luxury RV camper. Quick to lock the door, the man from Kansas then pulled the zipper of his own racing suit down to mid-chest and exhaled. “Better now?” Eyes ablaze, Wayne continued to pace the living room area. Kent watched his still clenched fists. “Should've let me kick his ass, Clark - that fuckwit Rogers deserves a good punching.”  
  
With a smooth step forward, Clark blocked his pacing and caused Bruce to lay furious eyes on him. “He's not worth getting you suspended from the race, and you know that just like I do.” When the Gothamite was about to sidestep him, Clark grabbed his shoulders. _“Bruce. Breathe. Out.”_ With a defiant tug of the mouth, Wayne stared down at the floor. After a few heartbeats, however, his shoulders lost some of their tensenesses.  
  
“You and your goddamn voice of reason. Nothing ever really gets to you, now, does it?” The taller man smiled the ghost of a smile. His hands then wandered up to cup Wayne's face. “Not really. But _you_ got me for good if that's any help.” Clark then bent down to capture those still pinched lips, until he felt Bruce loosen up under his kiss. “Come on, let's wash away all of your frustrations. You'll feel better afterward.”  
  
He then pulled his lover along into the spacious shower cabin in the back of the RV. After soaping each other clean, Clark's large hand wrapped around Bruce's growing erection and began to administer a solid pace. Soon, Wayne was leaning his head back against the wall; jaw locked tight and groaning out between half-opened lips. Underneath the warm stream of water, his hands went around Kent's firm buttocks and squeezed hard.

Dark blue eyes gazed into green, full of intensity. Clark continued to capture his wet mouth over and over again, at the same time twisting his wrist to pleasure both of them at the same time. Feeling close, Clark sped up his pace, until he saw Bruce's eyes flutter shut just split seconds before he climaxed. Clark followed his lead mere moments later and had to brace himself with his free hand against the wall, next to Bruce's head.  
  
A small smirk soon appeared on Wayne's lips.   
“Looks like you were right.”   
Kent raised his head from where he had been resting his forehead on Bruce's shoulder.   
  
“About?”   
The pressure of those vise-like hands around his hips lessened.   
“I do feel better afterward.”  
  
Then Bruce interlinked his fingers in the small of Clark's broad back and held him close.

* * *

The next day, the general mood at the WE Racing meeting remained subdued. The result of their two-hour jour fixe was an overly sarcastic Bruce Wayne, a frustrated Clark Kent, and a less than amused Alfred Pennyworth. “Those vendetta races have nothing to do with the spirit of the sport, Sir.” Adamant, Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. His t-shirt stretched tight over his biceps.

“Tell Rogers that. He's the one who's got a little problem going faster under caution than he does under green.”   
  
Alfred cast Clark Kent a brief but knowing glance. It prompted the other man to clear his throat. “You know that only sixteen drivers are going for the Chase of the Championship, right?” Bruce threw his lover an enervated glance at piping up and went to unscrew his water bottle. “Based on their total number of wins and compete in the last ten races, yes. That's where we go in.”   
  
When Pennyworth had to take a phone call, Kent shook his head at his partner's obvious stubbornness. “But you won't get selected if the basis of your wins during the first twenty-six races is shit, Bruce!” Wayne gulped the contents in one setting and squished the empty bottle inside his palm. “So then we have to make sure it's _not_ gonna be shit, alright? Stop giving me a lecture here, Clark!”

The Gothamite stormed out of the box, dumping the plastic bottle into the trashcan in the process. His pacing eventually led him to all but trip over his crew chief around the corner. Fox' eyes sparkled. “Still holding grudges, Bruce?” Said man ran a hand through his hair and stared down at the concrete floor. “Rogers and Stark are the most evil, mindless, blood-sucking, foolish little bastards to ever race!”  
  
Lucius Fox regarded his fuming young protege with cool composure. “Well, Mister Wayne, then you just need to be faster to not let them bother you.” Initial anger drizzling out, a small smirk appeared on the Gothamite's face. “That's what I have you for, Lucius, to make me faster. No, scratch that. Make me hella fast.” As if to mimic him, a very slight smile began to creep up the corners of the older man's lips.  
  
“I think I might have just what you need. Come with me.” Not bothering to tell Clark where he went, Bruce followed him back into the team's pit stop box. “As you know, the cars are heavy, and require a harder tire compound than any other racing series.” A little impatient as to why Fox was getting into theorems, Bruce nodded along. “All components are mechanical instead of allowing complicated electronics; to keep costs down.“   
  
The young Gothamite followed him all the way into the back, away from the overall commotion.  
“Lucius, I know all of that, so why...”   
Slight reproach crossed the elder man's face at the interruption, and Bruce for once held his tongue.

“If we were to switch to modern fuel injection instead of carburetors, we could increase horsepower by 10 at least. Needless to say, NASCAR is concerned about having more onboard electronics that could enable teams to disguise something akin to traction-control within an EFI system.” Astute hazel eyes narrowed in on their opposite. “So what you're saying is there is a way to get faster, but it's illegal?”  
  
Fox gave a sly grin and patted his shoulder as he walked past to open a drawer. “10 hp ain't worth getting suspended over, but it still got me tweaking with the carburetor.” With a predatory grin, Bruce slipped one hip onto the edge of the workbench. “I'm all eyes... and ears.” Lucius Fox went to lock the door of the workshop behind them.

 


	10. Chapter 10

When Clark came back from his afternoon run, bare-chested and sweaty, he found his team partner in a for him exceptionally good mood. “Whoa there - what's gotten into you?” His question came out muffled from where Bruce had him pinned to the cabinet, mouth hungrily lunging for Clark's. “We're gonna win at Michigan, Clark, I promise.” Kent gently forced him off to hold him at arms' length. Severity lay in his blue eyes.  
  
“Why, Bruce? What happened? What did you do?”  
  
The shrewd smirk that started out at the corners of Bruce's lips eventually broke all over his mouth. “I didn't do a thing, but Lucius did. Or rather does. It might just be the key advantage we need.” Realization flickered on his partner's square-jawed face. Clark could not help but to shake his head. “This is not how you used to think back in the days, Bruce. What happened to incorruptible and...”  
  
Aggravated, Wayne tore away from his close proximity. All of his brief bout of euphoria was gone. “I'm sick and tired of this series being the goddamn Stark-and-Rogers show, alright, Clark?” Kent frowned. “Still, Bruce, that's not...” A well-manicured index finger was up in his face in an instant. “Don't even start this with me now, Kent. Don't even start!” Bruce was gone as fast as his good mood.

He spent the rest of the evening taking out his frustrations on the treadmill at the gym and only returned when Clark had settled in for the night. They did not speak to each other, but when Wayne's hand felt for Kent's solid hard, and moreover naked body underneath the sheets, he wasted no time in making it up to Clark in the most mind-blowing, non-verbal kind.

* * *

Michigan, Michigan International Speedway, June 16th, 2013  
  
  
After being repaved in 2012, Michigan was known for being the fastest track in NASCAR due to its wide, sweeping corners and long straightaways. Its typical qualifying speeds were over 200 mph, with corner entry speeds anywhere from 215 to 220 mph. It should turn out to become the perfect testing grounds for Bruce and Clark's improved fuel tuning. At some point, it was round 150, and Steve Rogers was pissed.

“I wanna know the general synopsis of our agenda here. Are we here to survive? Is that all we can do? I just need to know so I can mentally prepare for what I'm supposed to do the next 50 laps.” His voice was flat. It was Tony who was able to filter out the utter rage that boiled within him. “Where's that good ol' enthusiasm of yours, Captain? Show me some luvin there, c'mon.”  
  
Steve would have loved to do as his boyfriend encouraged him to, had it not been for Bruce Wayne. “Remind that No. 21 I'm racing for a championship here, and he doesn't need to fuck me around?!” The blonde ground his jaw and eyed the tight field in front and around him. “The next time I get to him, I'm moving him- just let him know!” Opposed to the irate voice of his driver, Rhodes was as professional as he could be.

“10-4. I would, too.” While his reply managed to make Tony grin with determination, Steve was not that easily mollified. “Nascar's generation next. We've got the next patch of fucking idiots running the deal here.” No sooner than he had uttered those words, a flyby move from the Gothamite grazed Rogers' Chevy and sent him careening high up against the barriers.  
  
Despite all of Steve's skillful countermeasures and maneuvers, it trashed the passenger side and caught fire in the back and underneath the front axle. His colorful swearing over the comm promptly caused Tony to inquire. “What's up there, Steve? You got smashed?” The blonde listened along with gritted teeth as he lurched off to the lower part of the racetrack. “The 21 just wrecked me good back here, just so you know.”  
  
Tony eyed the rearview mirror as his mouth twisted in exasperation. “Looks like Happy's gonna wonder if he'll ever be able to buff that out again.” His try for humor did not have the desired effect as Steve huffed hard over the comm. “Tell Wayne thanks a fucking lot.” Before Tony could find ways to console his boyfriend, Rhodey was in his ear. “Gotta stay alert there now, Tones. Both the 21 and the 22 are hot on your heels. Stay left!”  
  
Eyes narrowed, Tony Stark put his foot down just a trifle more, felt the steering wheel pulsate underneath his gloves, and made it to pole just seconds before his competitors. Cheering over his comm erupted even while the checkered flag got still waved, causing him to grin like a maniac inside his helmet. "Can I at least play in the grass a little bit?" Rhodes chuckled into his earpiece. "Don't care, man. Do whatever the fuck you want."  
  
It should become the first race for Clark Kent to finish second place, with Bruce Wayne coming in third. To the cheering of their team, Clark scrambled upon the rim of the driver window and conducted a couple of Mexican waves throughout the pit crew members of WE Racing. Bruce, who did not participate, eventually went and swept him off his makeshift podium with a strong grip around Kent's midriff.

In front of SI Racing, Tony was just being done with a massive set of burnouts and donuts.

As soon as he had emptied half of the magnum bottle of champagne somebody had shoved in his hands with large gulps, he gave the first of many obligatory interviews to come. “Yeah, bout damn time I showed them who's the boss round here! SI Racing fuck the world!” In a spontaneous bust, he then waved for the mobile camera crews to follow him over to the WE Racing pit. “Time to burn!”  
  
When Bruce and Clark noticed the commotion, they were quick to investigate. By now, Stark was standing up on the barrier between their pits, illuminated by the floodlights and surrounded by his crew members. Someone had cranked up a boombox, and a rap-metal song by P.O.D. reverberated across the track.

 _'Is that all you got?_  
 _I'll take your best shot!_  
 _Boom! Here comes the Boom!_  
 _Ready or not, here comes the boys from the South_  
 _Boom! Here comes the Boom!_  
 _How you like me now?'_  
  
Bruce narrowed his eyes in spite when Tony began to put up a show for everyone to witness. As he stood there, legs spread wide and bopping along to the beats, he grabbed his crotch in a provocative manner at every 'Boom' whilst pointing at his opponents. His whole SI Racing crew was howling with laughter. Stone-faced, Wayne simply turned and left; indefinitely glad that Alfred and Lucius had stayed inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Boom" by American rock band P.O.D. (2002) from the album 'Satellite'


	11. Chapter 11

Florida, July 2013

  
Bruce had always been into charity; having not only inherited his family’s wealth, but also his parents' spirit of supporting lesser fortunate parties.  
  
When the NASCAR foundation had approached Wayne Enterprises for a potential partnership, its heir had given his instant approval. As it turned out, his first official good deed led the Gothamite right into the Betty Jane France Children's Emergency Center at Homestead Hospital, called Speediatrics. It was an eight-bed pediatrics unit, and the only Emergency Center in South Miami to solely be dedicated to children.  
  
“Whenever drivers come by for visits, the children are so excited. They just love it.” The nurse who steered him through the many halogen-lit floors was a petite, elderly woman who reminded Bruce a lot of Clark's mother Martha; compassionate but tough as nails if necessary. He took off his baseball hat, ran a hand through matted hair, and glimpsed down at his casual outfit of jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers, feeling awkward.  
  
“Maybe I should've brought my fire suit instead. They won't even know who I am." Nurse Campbell smiled up at him with genuine affection upon her weathered countenance. "Don't worry, Mister Wayne. The kids are smarter than both you and I might think." They passed through one more swinging door. As soon as he stood amid the kids' room, Bruce Wayne all but recoiled.

Tony Stark was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by several kids and toys strewn everywhere. A young girl sat across from him, deeply engrossed in a game of 'Sorry!' “Five! I got you, Tony!” She squealed out in delight and moved her green-colored pawn forward, removing a red one. Stark made an exaggerated wailing sound and buried his head in his palms. “Schnookums, you are far too smart for me.”

The girl gave a giggle and sniveled around the nasal cannula upon her face. “Next time you win. Maybe!” Rooted to the spot, Bruce saw how Tony also did something close to a double take upon spotting him. Stark, too, was dressed down in a casual denim and shirt combo and had donned a navy baseball hat with his company's logo. Upon the mutual stupefaction, the nurse was quick to explain.

“Mister Stark usually comes by at least once a month. Looks like he's got some company today.”  
  
She introduced Bruce to the 6 – 10-year-old boys and girls before she left for the more critical little patients at the pediatric's ICU. Tony's smile went from diffuse to partially welcoming as he sized Bruce up. “Reinforcements at least. If I lose one more round of Sorry against Sandy here, I'm starting to cry.” Just when Wayne felt he needed to say something, said girl crawled over to Stark with a squeak.  
  
To see his nemesis tilt his head back in joyful laughter as Sandy began to scramble upon him for a merciless tickle attack, bewildered Bruce. He did not fail to notice how Stark always remained mindful of the child's portable respiratory apparatus and treated her with utmost care. Something then tugged at Bruce's jeans. Dumbfounded, he looked down at a little boy with glasses. He had no hair and was fairly pale and thin.  
  
“Did you bring any of your toys along?” Startled, Wayne blinked. “My toys?” The boy nodded, all serious. “Model cars of your team.” Sweat started to break out in the small of Bruce's back. “I... no. I'm afraid I... don't have those.” Part of him wanted to curse Clark for talking him into the visit, and Alfred for not seeing about those kinds of obstacles beforehand. The boy looked a little crestfallen but eventually nodded.  
  
“Oh, okay. You drive the Ford Fusion, don't you? I like it because it's matte black. That's so cool.” From the corner of his eye, Bruce noticed how Tony watched him from his spot on the floor. Out of instinct, the Gothamite then hunkered down onto one knee so that he was at eye level with the boy. “Yeah, I do. And I like the black paint job as well. I'll-... get you one of your own next time. Okay?” At that, a smile flitted over the tired face.  
  
“Okay. Do you wanna see all the cars I have so far? I've got a lot!” Without waiting for an answer, the boy grabbed him by the sleeve, and Bruce had no choice but to get up and follow him. Stark must have seen the look of utter helplessness on his face because he piped in. “Danny boy, go easy on the big guy there, will ya? We don't want to scare him off.” The two men shared a brief look, then Danny nodded, pulling his guest along. “Sure.”

He glimpsed up at Wayne again. “I'm Daniel, but you can call me Danny, just like Tony does.” His clever, gray eyes then narrowed. “And I already know your name. It's Bruce. Right?” Bruce nodded. “Nice to meet you, Danny. Show me your cars.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

Soon enough, Bruce Wayne found himself sitting cross-legged on a huge traffic carpet, encircled by a multitude of Hot Wheels cars and motos.  
  
A bunch of other kids had gathered around as well, trying to build the wackiest stunt track with multiple loops, despite Bruce's efforts to get them to act out a real race. From where Tony Stark was carrying a sleepy Sandy piggyback through the room, he eventually stopped to inspect the chaos around the Gothamite. “Alright you experts at hand, I need to borrow Bruce for a second there. That okay?”  
  
Mutual dismay erupted, but Wayne was quick to hop to his feet, grateful for the time out. He glanced down at the playing kids one more time, catching Danny's eye. “Just make sure all the cars and bikes go back into their garages later on... – for refueling and maintenance, okay?” The boy nodded, fully serious, and went back to set up a new looping track with a fellow boy about his age. Tony pointed his head towards the sofa.

“Gotta unload first.” He managed to scoot the little girl upon the couch without waking her up and pulled a blanket over her. With a glimpse at the clock above the door, Bruce realized he had stayed for almost three hours. His cohort followed his line of view and removed his too big hat from Sandy's head to put it back on. “I usually don't make it out of here under two hours. C'mon, I think we've truly worn them out.”

The two of them said goodbye to nurse Campbell, signed their names across the Speediatrics Wall Of Fame, and soon stood in the empty parking lot together. By now, the skies were drenched in deep shades of red and orange. Stark fumbled in the pocket of his jeans until Bruce heard the jingle of car keys. “Care for a lift?" Having missed out on telling Alfred when he was supposed to pick him up, Wayne shrugged. “I'll catch a cab.”  
  
Tony was quick to tap his arm. “I'll charge less.” He pressed the unlock button on his keys. A blip and a nearby metallic red Audi R8 convertible flashed its headlights at them in the semi-dark. Intrigued, Bruce could not help but stare. “That the new GT Spyder?” Tony grinned and started walking towards the sports car. “Yep. C'mon now, hop on in before anybody's gonna watch – or I'll change my mind.”

With some minor leftover resistance, Bruce Wayne did as he was told and buckled up. In a flash, the engine ignited with a deep roar, and Stark made a point in letting it idle on as he pushed a button. In less than ten seconds, the roof soundlessly opened and folded up to fit into the back of the car. After shedding his baseball hat to tuck it at Bruce's feet, Tony's eyes wandered back up to meet the other man's gaze.

“Where to, dearest Sir?” Out of instinct, Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. “Setai Hotel Miami Beach.” His preferred destination earned him a whistle. “Ha, for reals now.” Tony then put his foot down and maneuvered the roadster out of the parking lot into the traffic. Wayne frowned, so he amended. “Hotel buddies. You and me. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Who knew. Looks like you got style after all.”

Annoyed at the wind trying to lift the hat from his head, Bruce eventually yanked it off. “From your last stint in Michigan, I'm surprised the word style even exists in your vocabulary.” It was said with such vehemence that Stark could not help but to giggle. “Hey, ouch - critical hit, critical hit.” While his comment was meant to be comical, Tony's eyes still told a different, more thoughtful story.

“Well... y'know, it's NASCAR, so you just gotta roll with the punches sometimes.” The final words had just left his mouth when Bruce cut in; clear and present offense upon his face. “Still no excuse.” The smaller man gave a humorless snort and shook his head just as he accelerated on the turnpike. “C’mon Wayne, stop acting out the butthurt little brat tour – that’s not who you are.” Open fury flashed in the younger man’s eyes.

“How would you know anything about me, Stark?”  
Having to wait at a red light, Tony responded with a lenient smile.  
“Because I remember your parents. They didn’t raise a douchebag.”  
  
Rendered speechless, Bruce continued to stare at him, trying to decipher the motives behind the statement. Tony glimpsed into the direction of the dark ocean. “I was six or seven, and you not even born. Your father was one of the few men my dad truly respected, which... well... says a lot.” The MacArthur Causeway was fairly empty, and Stark accelerated ever so slightly.

For a while, wind whipping at their hair and the howling of the engine were the only sounds in their ears as they sped through the dusk of the approaching night. Wayne fiddled with the hat, keeping his fingers busy, and Tony kept on stealing glances at his silent companion. “I also remember when they passed away, and how...” Jaw set tight, Bruce jerked his head up and into Tony's direction.

"Can you not? Just because you displayed decent human behavior once doesn't mean I'm discussing my personal life with you, of all people!”

Instead of a witty comeback or insult, Stark pressed his lips together and his foot down. The R8 whined in deep, dark hues under them. Soon, the lights of Miami Beach loomed up in the distance. After another ten minutes of silent driving, they eventually had to stop at another red light. It was then that Tony spoke. “Know what? It's okay to think of me as a piece of shit, Wayne, I'm so used to it, I don't even care.”

At approximately 50 yards from their hotel, Bruce then unbuckled and pushed the roadster's door open with force. “I'll walk the rest of the way.” Stark tipped his head back with an exasperated groan. “Yeah, fine, whatevs. That leopard can't change his spots shtick. I get it - really, I do. _Me, of all people.”_ When nothing followed, Stark eventually squinted at him, hurt.

Bruce Wayne jammed the baseball hat back upon his head with an indecipherable expression. “... that's not what it is, okay? Thanks for the ride. Good night.” He was quick to cross the road, all the while pulling the peak of the hat deep down into his face. Tony's eyes followed him until the traffic light switched to green. He purposely let the R8 howl out loud before he surged forward and sped past, headed for the hotel's garage. 

Wayne did not turn around anymore and disappeared inside the Setai.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Daytona was going to take place on July 6th, which ultimately meant two days after Steve’s birthday. The 30th  birthday bash Tony threw him turned out to become a ginormous extravaganza, starting with a party at their rented penthouse suite at 7 pm. The entire 40th  floor with its panoramic skyline horizons was decorated with banners in the national colors, most of them saying 'Dirty Thirty'.

Loud music boomed out of several speakers across the 3,000 square-foot private rooftop terrace and its infinity pool. A waterproof HDTV showed a continuous loop of SI Racing's best NASCAR moments of past seasons, as well as a slideshow of pictures from Steve and his teammates on track. Around a hundred people mingled around the plush lounge area; drinking, chatting, and dancing.

Tony Stark sashayed through the crowd, dressed in a pair of dark, fitted denims with a white shirt and dark-blue vest on top. The drink in his hand was the third vodka martini in under two hours. He had been keeping a steady flow to tamper down his nervousness. When the big, four-stocky cake got wheeled in, the crowd erupted in a hearty crescendo of 'Happy Birthday', while Tony locked lips with his significant other.

Once the singing had died down to clapping and cheering, Tony clenched his hands around Steve's to prevent him from fleeing. The blonde's cheeks were already flushed with excitement and alcohol, and he threw his lover a questioning look. Tony glanced at the many smiling faces and let go of one of Steve's hands to make a shushing gesture. "Everybody? Calm down a little. Steve needs to hear what I'm about to say."

As soon as the noise level had died down, Tony licked his lips and threw his opposite a mischievous glance. "Steven Grant Rogers, we're together for over two years now - and I've been calling you hubcap for most, if not all of them. I think it would be time to back this notion up..." With a final glimpse around the blur of expectant faces standing around them in a circle, Tony focused on the wide blue eyes in front of him.

"... do you want to marry me, and officially become my hubby on the papers?"   
  
The female guests shrieked out in excitement, while the male ones roared and whistled out loud. From where Tony still held his fingers in a pinching grip, Steve stared at him with a shocked face. The longer he stared, the more Tony Stark's smile became diffuse, and he squeezed Steve's hands hard two times as if to shake him out of his stupor. “Earth to Steve? Steve-O?” Rogers blinked several times. "I... uh...”

Neither of the two seemed to notice or to care that the noise around them gradually died down to shuffles and coughs. All Steve could focus on were Tony's frown and disbelieving eyes darting in his own. “How about we... discuss this somewhere more private?” Tony pressed a chuckle through tight lips. "All it takes is a yes or no, babe, no discussions necessary.”

By now, the overall atmosphere had turned from giddy excitement to slightly awkward. James Rhodes was quick to get the DJ to crank the music back up and the waiters to get refills on people's drinks. With two glasses, he approached the couple who was still standing close but had stopped holding hands. “Here, cheers. Pep and I are going to see about the fireworks, okay? The concierge said they'd start at 9.”  
  
Tony took the proffered glass with a mirthless nod and smile. As soon as Rhodey was gone, Steve cleared his throat. "Tony, I'm... I'm sorry it came out that way. I just wasn't -I mean I ... it caught me completely off guard." Stark made a shrugging gesture and glimpsed around before he checked his watch. "Well, that was kinda the point, wasn't it? Surprise and all that jazz." Rogers unconsciously wiped both palms on his jeans.  
  
"Let's not... rush things, okay? Call me old-fashioned, but..."  
Tony waved him off and downed the rest of his vodka in one sitting.  
"Yeah, yeah, don't fret, Captain. C'mon now, fireworks on the terrace in ten."  
  
Stark's voice was a trifle too loud and too cheerful as he headed for the patio to follow their guests.

* * *

“But it's going to be fun, Bruce, c'mon. The rest of the team is also going.”  
Clark rubbed his freshly washed hair with a towel and stood in the doorway of the bathroom.  
“ _Fun,_ Clark? Have we met?”

“Yes, Bruce, fun. And I do know you're very well able to drop your sour-as-lemon attitude if you want.”  
The Gothamite raised an elegant eyebrow without taking his eyes off the screen.  
“Well, tonight I don't want to.”  
  
When his lover did not reply and disappeared into the bathroom again, Bruce glimpsed up. As soon as Kent reappeared, dressed in a slim fitted black button down and faded denims, Wayne grimaced. “Sorry, Clark, I'm just not in the mood for fireworks tonight. Take Hal along and have fun.” Hal Jordan was an ambitious driver in the NASCAR Camping World Truck Series; the third tier of the three national divisions of the association.

Both Bruce and Clark were convinced Hal's talent would soon get him into the second-tier Xfinity-Series if he did not fall victim to his reckless driving, that was. “If you change your mind - we're at Bayfront Park, okay?“ Clark leaned over to where Bruce still sat with a slim ultrabook balancing on his lap and stole a kiss. “Sure, but I doubt it. I'll probably hit the gym and go through next month's night race in Tennessee.”

With a forbearing shake of the head, the taller man pulled back, straightened up and regarded his stoic partner. “Always working, always planning. One of these days, you're gonna have to relearn how to enjoy life.” An emotionless, automatic smirk hushed over Wayne's face; eyes glued again to the screen. “Don't get too loaded, we got team meeting at 10 tomorrow.” Hand on the doorknob, Clark turned around one more time.  
  
“Who convened that? It's July 4th for heaven's sake!”  
His scandalized expression was met with a, now sardonically, raised eyebrow. It caused Kent to give a frustrated groan.  
“Should've known.”  
  
Even before the door fell into its lock behind him, the sound of fast typing filled the air.

 


	14. Chapter 14

At 10:15, the gym was mercifully empty, much to Bruce's solitary liking. No other hotel guests or staff members were around, and the only sounds that filled his ears were the thrum of the treadmill, his steady breathing, and some low-key background electro music over the surround sound system. After an hour of powerlifting, he was pounding the treadmill hard whilst keeping his gaze straight ahead.

He ironically had to admit that the bayside fireworks had been quite spectacular from his vantage point, high up on the upper floors, facing the dark Atlantic Ocean and the Setai's three pools. A quick glimpse to check on his pace and heart rate, then Bruce's eyes flew back out through the panoramic ceiling-high windows. A dark body along the poolside then caught his attention, stumbling along rather close to the pool's rim.

Narrowing his eyes, Bruce watched the silhouette sway on the spot. Concerned, he hopped onto the edges of the treadmill and pressed the stop button, to which the constant whirr halted. When he glanced back up, the person was gone from his view. Bruce Wayne wasted no time and bolted out of the nearest glass door onto the patio. Confirming his suspicions, the person he had identified as male was floating face-down in the water.

With a mighty header into the pool, Bruce yanked the lifeless body up and pushed his chin out of the water. His eyes widened when they stared at the slack, familiar face. “Stark? Stark!” Bruce was treading water since the pool was deep at their current position. Much to his relief, Tony's eyelids fluttered and he all but spat out a huge fountain of water; hitting Bruce square in the face. Disgusted, Wayne blinked against the water in his eyes.

“The ladder! Move or we'll drown!”

A disoriented Stark then began to flail in his grip. It did not help, but at least got Bruce to obtain a more secure hold on his upper body. With strong kicks of his legs, he dragged the other man over to the ladder and manhandled him out of the pool with great difficulty. For a few moments, they lay on the ground and gasped for air. Bruce was the first to push himself to his knees and stare at the prone figure next to him.  
  
"What the hell were you thinking!?"  
Tony's heavy body rolled onto his side, leaving dark blotches on the sand-colored tiles around the pool.  
"Tha' I shoulda brough' m' swim trunks?"  
  
He coughed out some more, sneezed once, and scrambled into a sitting position. Bruce pushed himself to his feet, went into the empty gym and came back with a fistful of clean, dry towels he all but threw upon Tony's head and body. "What the fuck are you doing here anyhow? Your party's at the penthouse!” Instead of an answer, and much to his confusion, Stark began to hum and snigger to himself. “'s my party 'n I cry if I wan' to.”  
  
Looming above, Wayne put his arms akimbo and stepped back. His soaking wet running shoes made some sloshing sounds, prompting Tony to glimpse up at him. “Y'would cry to 'f it happ'nd t'you.” Bruce Wayne brushed a careless hand over disturbing bangs on his forehead. “What are you babbling about, for fuck's sake?” Tony's manic laugh echoed over the vast terrace. “I jus' proposed, n got beefed reeeal good. Can ya 'magine?”  
  
He was either talking to himself or a nearby recliner, not looking into Bruce's direction anymore. "Yeah, but, y'know, fifty percent o' marriages end 'n divorce 'nyway. Ya could say we’re jus' dodging the bullet. _Steve's_ dodgin' th' bullet. Huh. _Fuck._ " Bruce stared at him with skepticism; eyes shrouded within the semi-dark and the bluish hues of the pool that were casting strange prisms upon his face.

"I don't think any of this accounts for ending your life in a hotel pool on Independence Day, though."

Tony was still sitting like the picture of misery on the stone tiles of the pool, towels all over his body, and made no move to get dried up. "Guess I've jus' set m'self up f'failure. Shoulda known." Wayne squatted down next to him and grabbed some towels off his shoulders. “Takes two to tango.” Tony glimpsed at him just as Bruce started to vigorously rub at the dripping wet strands of his hair. “Huh. Why'r you ssso nice t'me?”

Their fingers briefly touched when Tony started to take toweling matters into his own hands. “So you don't sue me for denied assistance in an emergency later on.” Bruce let go of him and made a move to stand up again. "Would y'have done t'same, Bruce?" Stark's fingers got a hold on his arm, causing the Gothamite to furrow his brows in irritation. "I don't get drunk up to my eyeballs, so-- no."

"Nuh-uh. I mean... rejectin' your sign'f'cant other 'n front of evr'ybody?"  
When Wayne said nothing, Stark's grip got more pinching on his wrist.  
"D'you do that t'the person y'r s'ppsed t'love?"  
  
Bruce pointedly cleared his throat. It made Tony loosen up his hold a little. "I think the situation wouldn't have arisen, to begin with." The shorter man tried to shake some water out of his right ear and looked thoughtful. "Cuz what - you single? Nah, you 'n ... n Kent, amirite?" Two hazel eyes hardened in an instant. In a brisk move, Bruce freed himself and straightened up. “None of your business, Stark.” 

Instead of a retort, Tony only bobbed his head, mostly to himself. By now, he also was starting to shiver in his wet clothes, despite the summery temperatures of Miami's mild breeze. Bruce Wayne felt obliged to intervene. “C'mon now, you got to get warm and into dry clothes.” He hooked his arms underneath the slack man's armpits and pulled him upright. As soon as they were at eye level, Tony swayed dangerously in his grip.

Bruce thus threw one of his arms around his shoulders and grabbed a hold of his waist. Once they were halfway steady, he steered him over into the gym's dressing rooms. “People are gonna wonder where you are by now.” Tony snorted and hiccuped at the same time. “No one cares, wanna bet?” Bruce parked him on a wide bench in between the many lockers of the men's room and crossed his arms. “Clothes off.”

A warped smile hushed over Tony's features. “Easy c'wboy – uh... don' know you _that_ well.” At the withering stare he got in return, he began to fumble with the buttons on his vest. While Stark was busy, the other man went to fetch a glass of water from the many free pitchers around. “Here.” Tony glimpsed up with difficulty at the glass in front, not taking it. His face meanwhile held a rather unhealthy pallor in the bright downlights.

He had not managed to open more than one button so far, fingers shaking. Exasperated, Bruce put the glass aside and wanted to take over, to get things moving faster. That was when Stark leaned to the side and threw up into a nearby laundry bag for dirty gym and spa towels. With a curse, the Gothamite was quick to jump back to escape the brunt of his spewing. After a few moments, Stark's vomiting died down to dry retching.

His hands grabbed onto the rim of the bench, trying to push himself back into an upright position. Bruce's mouth curled in dismay. "Fantastic." Once Tony had nothing left in his stomach, Bruce dared to hand him the glass of water once more. That time, Stark took it, albeit unsteady. "M'sorry." Bruce gave a noncommittal snort and hunkered down to reach for his shirt that had mostly remained vomit-free.

Stark wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and continued to repeat his mumbled apology several more times. "Shush now." The small buttonholes of Stark's clingy shirt were a challenge to Bruce as well, but after a few minutes, he had freed him of his clammy confines and also took off the sodden denims with a stoic expression. Wayne then got up and left him sitting there, dressed in a pair of dark blue boxer briefs.

When he came back, a white, fluffy bathrobe was in his hands which he held under Tony's nose. “Put this on.” Soon, Tony stood in the doorway of the spa's elevator; barefoot and swaying on the spot. He looked small and forlorn, wrapped up in the overly large bathrobe as he pressed the wet bundle of clothes closer to his chest, and tried to focus on Bruce. “Owe ya.” Wayne stepped in with him, pressed 'PH', and stepped back out.

“It's fine.”

Stark's large brown eyes stayed locked with his until the elevator door closed with a soft hiss.

* * *

When he returned to his penthouse suite, it was already past 11 pm, and all guests gone. Steve sprang up from the huge couch and all but hastened into his direction. “TONY! Gosh, where have you been for heaven's sake?” Aghast, Rogers clasped his shoulders and looked him up and down, worry in his voice. Tony put up a brave smile and sniffled. “Nice spa area they got 'ere.”

He shifted the bundle in his arms and looked around, anywhere but at his apprehensive boyfriend. “I wanna go t'bed now, Steve, can we...” Steve swallowed down all questions upon seeing the tense hunch of Tony's shoulders and nodded. “Of course.” While Tony disappeared into· their bedroom, Steve whipped out his mobile and texted Jim Rhodes.  
  
_'He's here. We're good. G'night.'_

 


	15. Chapter 15

Florida, Daytona International Speedway, 06th July 2013

  
When Tony Stark got behind the wheel of his Chevrolet on race day, he resembled nothing the picture of hungover misery he had displayed for the past two days. He and Steve had taken the time to themselves and went for a private little yacht trip, organized by the hotel's VIP hospitality manager. Once they returned for the mandatory driver's meeting two hours prior to the race, they were holding hands under the table.

Rhodes, who had kept a close eye on his best friend, then comm'd him just before the pace car was gone. “160 today, Tones. Be ready to dig in here and go to work, 100 %.” Tony nodded, more to himself, and gripped the wheel tighter. “Appreciate all the hard work, platypus. I believe in you -I love all of you, guys- and we're going to get in. Gonna fight till the end, no matter what.”  
  
His determination and skill paid off and soon got him to secure a solid 94 leading laps. Right behind him, much to everyone's surprise, sat Clark Kent, followed closely by Steve Rogers. Bruce Wayne somehow did not pick up on his previous, bellicose attitude, and hovered somewhere between position 4 and 8. After many lackluster laps, his crew chief and spotter tried to get him to come out of his slump.

“Bruce, what is going on? What are you fighting right now?”  
Wayne wrestled with the steering wheel and downshifted.  
“Nothing good to report. Five inches down on the track bar. No grip, no aero, no control. This sucks.”

“Why is the Panhard bar that low?” Gordon's inquiry struck a nerve with the aggravated Gothamite. “... why is the fuckin earth round? I'm _loose_ , Jim, okay?!” Kent piped in, trying to exude optimism and cheer. “Don't worry there, Bruce, I got this. Wouldn't that be nice - getting Daytona 500 for once.” When neither Wayne nor Gordon answered, Fox cut in and opted for comical relief.  
  
“Either way, I could really need a bottle of champagne to take back home tonight.” A snort made it clear Bruce was less than amused at his crew chief's sense of humor. “It's not all about winning or losing down here at this point, Lucius, it's about advancing.” Three pairs of eyes were rolling, unbeknownst to him. Dropping the topic, Clark focused back on the track and most of all on the force that was Tony Stark right in front.

A vicious chase erupted between the two until there was dead heat between the white Ford and the blue Chevrolet. “Don't let him cross you – he's trying to cross you. In line, Clark, keep digging...” Gordon's voice was controlled. Sweat still started to bead behind Kent's visor. “Get with the #13, tell him we're pretty slick.. - and with him right on my door like that, it's going to be bad for both of us.”

No sooner than Clark had uttered his concerns on the final lap, going into the tri-oval, he got hooked head-on into the wall by Tony Stark. At the SI Racing pit box, Jarvis' voice hollered over the comm. “Caution! Caution! Keep coming, Tony, just stay on the gas! Back straightaway, stay on the gas!” From where Kent's car was uncontrollably spinning, it got hit by a close-up Steve Rogers at 180 mph, sending the rear of the Ford airborne.

Cussing and cursing from both drivers could be heard over the radios, leading their respective crew chiefs to try and talk them down. To make matters worse, Clark suffered a third hit from teammate after crossing the start-finish line. It led to two dented Ford, and an uninjured but exceptionally bad-spirited man from Kansas. “I'm done, man. Absolutely done.” Moments later, Bruce's flat voice over the radio spoke volumes.

“I'm assuming we didn't cut it.”  
After a brief, awkward silence, Gordon eventually answered him.  
“No, we missed forecast by 6 points.”  
  
It was a rather subdued, sweated Tony Stark who stepped in front of the microphones at Victory Lane. “I apologize for the contact. Although we got post-race benefits, I can't really enjoy victory today, because wrecking Kent to win is humiliating and embarrassing to me and my whole team.” From where Bruce had watched and listened to the celebrations outside of his trailer, he came back to a glowering pair of blue eyes.  
  
“His apology means nothing!”  
  
Clark slapped his gloves on the couch table and gave a disgusted sniff at his hands coming away smelly and wet. Bruce raised an eyebrow. “If you hadn't raced Stark as hard as you did on the final lap, you would have lost fewer points by finishing second or third. Now it might cost us a Chase position at the end of the season.” With a grunt, Bruce slipped upon the sofa, placed his elbows on his thighs, and rubbed at his grimy hair.

“Us? Or you?”  
  
Clark was as miffed as him, if not more. Wayne raised his head as his eyes narrowed. “The team. And I didn't hit you on purpose there, Clark. I thought that much was clear.” Kent shrugged, gnawing at the edge of his pinkie finger. “Sure. And you didn't want to race Stark on purpose there as well, it seemed.” Silence. The Nomex material of Wayne's fire suit rustled as he leaned back to cross his arms. “What do you mean?”

Clark tilted his head to the side and cocked an eyebrow. “You could've easily gotten pole but you held back, and I just don't get it. And don't go and start telling me Stark didn't wreck me on purpose because damn straight he did.” For a couple of seconds, Bruce's eyes darted all over Clark's face, searching for something. “The car. Was shit. End of story.” Their gazes warred within each other for a while until Kent yielded and broke the stare.  
  
“Of course, Bruce. Whatever you say, Bruce.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

Several uneventful races came and went all through the rest of July, and the first half of August. Both SI Racing and WE Racing were able to add points to their respective accounts, worked out some kinks on their cars, and managed to stay out of each other's hair long enough to call it some kind of truce. On August 22nd, Bristol Tennessee welcomed all NASCAR drivers with bearable temperatures in the mid-80's.

Being at the birthplace of country music, many teams felt obliged to do at least one obligatory pub crawl tour. Thursday night at 8, the renowned Country Club Bar & Grill was one of the go-to destinations for several teams. Thanks to Alfred's foresight and reservation, Bruce, Clark, and Jim Gordon had been able to get a hold on one of the few snooker tables and began to set up a game.

While the Commissioner volunteered to go get their first round of drinks, Bruce and Clark played a few easy trick shots to get warmed up. Commotion at the entrance of the bar caused them to look over and see Stark and Barton arrive with two females in tow. They were headed for the table next to them, which caused Bruce to barely stifle a groan, and Clark to stare at one of the girls in surprise.  
  
“... Diana?”  
The tall, athletic brunette stopped and stared as well. Then the finest of grins broke on her pretty face.  
“Clark! I shall be damned – what a surprise!”

She was quick to engulf him in a big hug. Bruce, who stood aside, made no move to repeat the gesture. Diana smirked at him and bumped his solid chest with her fist. “Good evening to you, too, Bruce. Looking good, you old Grinch – how's things? Heard you're closing the ranks pretty good there.” Wayne dipped the bumper of the cue stick in his hand onto the ground and gave a slightly bored smirk. “You always had excellent hearing.”  
  
Diana shook her head, making her ponytail flip left and right. Her eyes twinkled as they found Kent's. “I don't know how you keep up with him – you must have some kind of superpowers us mortals don't.” Said man from Kansas chuckled. “It's called an overabundance of patience I think.” He pretended not to have heard Bruce's disgruntled snort and saw her off when she hurried to catch up with her clique.

Meanwhile, Stark and Barton had already gotten their game on, and Bruce risked a glance. From the way it looked, Tony Stark was on a roll; potting ball after ball in sequence. Barton tried his best to distract his friend by making funny faces and talking gibberish, all of which to no avail. Tony was just trying to find a way to trickshot his next move when he felt being watched from afar. Glimpsing up, he found Wayne's eyes on him.

As he watched on, the Gothamite started to polish the tip of his cue with chalk. It was then that Tony's lucky streak ended with a slip and miss of the ball. After nearly tearing a hole into the green cloth, Stark cursed out loud and threw his cue stick aside. An enthusiastic whoop from Clint followed, who then got in position, ready to try and gain back ground. Tony very well saw the slightest hint of a smirk on Wayne's face.

Bruce then turned around and got ready for his turn. The sight of the dimples on his back peeking from underneath his shirt, as well as his rear in dark denims as he leaned across the table, caused a sudden stir deep down in Stark's groin. A precise shot later, Bruce had potted the red ball in the top right corner. One by one, the Gothamite went to clear the table; focused and unrelenting, never once looking up.

At some point, Tony had to stop watching; because of his body's reactions, and because Clint had just failed to pot his latest shot. Clearing his throat, Tony inspected the situation on their own table very thoroughly. Impatient, Barton leaned on his upright cue stick, swaying his hips to some upbeat country song in the background. “C'mon Tony-Tones, it's not rocket science, it's snooker.”

Keeping his eyes on the table, Stark put a shushing index finger to his lips. “I'm just figuring out how to make your life more hellish, bird boy.” Tony then leaned in, tongue in the corner of his mouth, and potted the second to last red ball, followed by a color. Afterward, he placed the cue ball in a tough position, directly behind a color ball and straightened up. The smug expression on his face lasted, even as Clint mocked him.

“Oh, but I think you have to play a red there, Barton? Last one's yours.”  
  
With a grin, Tony watched his oblivious comrade realize the impasse situation he had maneuvered him into. “Get ready to be snookered, Hawk.” At their bar table, Natasha and Diana broke into snorting laughter and applause, toasted the sore loser, and demanded their turn for a new game. As the girls set up the table, Tony peeked over to where the WE Racing team also was done. The cue sticks lay aside and the table was empty.

Through the mirrors in the bar, he got a good, indirect view on Wayne and Gordon talking while Kent had gone to the bar. Feeling unobserved and in familiar company, the young Gothamite seemed far more relaxed and approachable than usual, and Tony found himself lingering at the sight. When he witnessed Bruce Wayne bursting out into a rare, honest laugh for the very first time, Stark could not help but to smile along.

His undercover scrutiny did not last long, however, and Tony was quick to finish his drink and move over to smack Barton's arm. “Be right back. You guys can go and start without me.” He pointed his chin towards the restrooms. Clint good-naturedly snarled at him. “I'm not playing with you anymore, dirty cheat. Go take a piss, I'll get us some more drinks.” With a mock-pout, Tony pushed his empty bottle into Barton's chest.

“It's called strategic snooker - and I'll have the same as before.”

Once he returned from the restrooms, Janie Fricke's 'He's a Heartache' played over the many speakers. Tony popped the third piece of nicotine gum and bopped along to the beat. On the dance floor, Clint was twirling his redhead girl around, and Stark grinned at the smitten look on his face.

Natasha and he had met when Clint was still driving the Xfinity series, back in 2010. She was the second female driver on the roster, together with her friend Diana Prince. The tall brunette was just trying to show a clumsy Clark Kent the right moves of line dancing, and Tony's smile morphed into a smirk. A quick glance around proved Jim Gordon also was nowhere in sight, having gone out for a smoke, and the Gothamite was on his own.

All casual, Tony grabbed his bottle and sauntered over. Bruce acknowledged him with a quick sideways glance and the ghost of a nod. “Y'know, that over there looks more like a wrestling match between those two.” At Tony's keen observation, the corners of Bruce's mouth twitched ever so slightly. “One that Diana's going to win.” Tony chuckled around the bottleneck. “True that." He then took a deep breath.

"Wanted to say thanks. Y'know, for... Miami.”  
  
Wayne crossed his ankles and his arms at the same time. His eyes narrowed but stayed focused ahead. “You okay?” The gentle question caught him by surprise, so Tony went for comical relief and held up his bottle. “See this? S'all I get these days. O'Douls. Tastes like feet, but keeps me from falling into things.” When Bruce said nothing, Stark cleared his throat and put the bottle aside. His cheeky voice lowered to a smooth baritone.

“Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks to you. And you never told anyone.” A vague shrug. “Nobody's business.” It left no room for further discussion. Tony responded with a quiet hum and hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. “Integrity's a noble treat, especially in _this_ business. Didn't really peg you the chivalrous type 'n such.” His voice sounded wistful if a bit taunting. Bruce uncrossed his arms and pushed himself off the rim.

“Don't mistake it for more than it was, alright?”  
  
To the first few chords of Johnny Cash's 'Walk the line', the Gothamite then headed over to where his spotter had just reentered the bar. The two men moved to the counter, leaving Tony to frown at their backs in vexed confusion. He then returned to his team's empty table, pulled out his mobile, and busied himself texting. _'Come down here, I need company'_. In less than a minute, he had an answer.

 _'You know I'm at the gym. And Clint + Nat are company'._  
All disgruntled, Tony's fingers flew over his phone.  
_'But they're making moon eyes and I'm about to barf'_

That time, Steve did not text back again immediately, and Tony glowered at the little messenger icon on his screen. Clint and Natasha were now slow dancing in a tight embrace, and he stole a glimpse at Natasha's friend Diana. Kent was gone, as was Wayne, and the brunette stood chatting with Jim Gordon in the corner. Then his mobile blipped. Tony thumbed over the little new message notification.  
  
_'Jealous? ;-)'_  
With a shake of the head at his boyfriend's ways, Tony typed back.  
_'Of the gym rather. You chose it over me'_  
  
Rogers' next reply did not take as long as the previous one. _'One of us has got to be the rational one'._ At that, Tony pocketed his phone, spat his stale gum into one of the nearby ashtrays, and bummed a cigarette from a denim-clad rocker dude sitting at the counter. With a free pack of matches, he pushed the bar's swinging doors open with one shoulder and stepped out into the warm summer night.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Classic country music followed him out to the parking lot around the corner, where Tony lit his smoke and took a couple of deep drags. As he stood and leaned against the rented Chevy Silverado Clint had organized for the evening, distant sounds of conversation reached his ears. Tony stole a glimpse over the hood of their pick up truck and searched around the dimly-lit area for the source of the hushed talk.

About 50 feet away, two familiar silhouettes stood opposite of each other. Stark was quick to lean back behind the B-pillar, straining to eavesdrop.

“That's not the point here, Bruce.”

“That's exactly the point here, Clark. She wants to get information, nothing more.”

“Good Lord, all we did was dance! I haven't seen Diana in months.”

Tony risked another peek and saw how Wayne had now crossed his arms and widened his stance. “And in the meantime, she's been hanging out with SI Racing. God, Clark, stop being so naïve.” While Stark's eyebrow rose, Kent started to shake his head and palm his neck with one hand. “You really can be obnoxious and paranoid at the same time.” He ran his fingers through his hair and gestured with his palm in mid-air right after.

“You know what? I'm going back in there now, and I'm going to talk with Diana as well. Maybe I even have another dance. Take it or leave it.” Clark's voice held a strained, stubborn undertone. When Bruce chose to remain silent, gravel crunched under Kent's feet as he turned and walked away.

From his secret observation post, Tony ducked back further into the shadows as the tall man passed him by, at a safe distance, to disappear inside the bar soon after. Stark gave a small yelp as the forgotten cigarette in his hand singed his fingers, and he had to let it drop it to the ground. In an instant Wayne had spotted him, morose face darkening even further. Tony stepped around the Chevy with a disarming grin.

“Looks like you caught me. Smoking I mean.”  
  
The Gothamite scanned him from top to bottom with mistrust in his gaze. Tony took his ongoing reticence as an invitation to ramble on. “Good thing I know I can count on you to keep a secret. That's two I owe you.” For a few seconds, Bruce fixated him with a gauging look, inhaled, and glanced at his watch. “Start filing IOUs if the list keeps growing.” Wayne then turned and headed for the cab stand on the other side of the road.

Tony licked his lips, tasted the tobacco on his breath, and took two tries at formulating something witty. “Hey, uh, Bruce...” Said man did not stop walking but slowed down enough to glimpse over his shoulder. “... life's too short to settle for mediocre.” In the sparse light of the streetlamps, something like a careful, honest smile crossed Wayne's lips. “Words to live by.” As he stood and saw him off, the device in his jeans' pocket buzzed.

Tony fished it out with two fingers. And clicked his tongue at the text he had received. _'Done working out, except for certain parts'_ A picture showed a familiar pair of blue and white striped boxer briefs and their very promising content. Stark's thumbs flew across the screen almost on their own accord. _'Got a lot of balls to pot here. Jealous?'_ Rogers' next text did not take longer than five seconds.

 _'Not really. Got some great ones myself. Might just whip 'em out and get a head start'_  
  
At the prospect of Steve taking matters into his own hands, Tony mumbled curses under his breath, adjusted himself in his jeans, and sprinted after the almost gone Gothamite, grabbing the door handle. “Can we share? I need to hop off at the Fairfield Inn.” Bruce looked as if he was about to say no, so Tony simply got in and closed the door. “Fare's on me.” Though Wayne did not approve, Stark made a shooing gesture at their driver.  
  
“3285 West State Street. And hurry up, I gotta date with a hot blonde.”  
  
Wordless, their driver put the taximeter on and turned the keys. As they drove through the night, Tony stole a glimpse to his left. Bruce sat, ramrod straight, and stared ahead while the streetlights created flickering patterns on one half of his face. Slouching a little deeper into the well-worn leather seat, Tony tipped his head back and folded his hands upon his upper stomach.

“Penny for'em, chief?” After a pause, which lasted so long, Tony figured he would not get an answer, Bruce eventually spoke. “I thought life's too short to settle for mediocre.” No sarcasm, no scorn. The Gohtamite rather sounded weary. His shorter companion giggle-snorted. “Life's too short in general. But I don't need to tell you that, with what's our rather shitty job choice.” No five minutes later, the cab stopped in front of the Marriott.

“There we are.”  
With a folded $50 bill between an index and middle finger, Tony flipped the money over to the driver.  
“Keep the rest – and make sure to get this fella here home safe as well.”

A wink at the man in question, and he was gone.

Outside the hotel, James Rhodes stood talking on the phone. Even though he remained focused on the person on the other end, his eyes darted from Tony over to the person in the backseat multiple times. Bruce Wayne saw him stare and leaned forward to speak to the driver. When the engine sprang to life, Tony swung around to look through the half-opened window onto the backseat one last time before the cab drove off.  
  
Stark then cleared his throat, brushed his palms against the sides of his jeans, and strode up to greet his friend with a deflecting smile. They did a bit of awkward sign language, seeing Rhodes was still busy talking on the phone. Taking the chance of escaping a potential roast, Tony patted his shoulder and hurried up to his room. Much to his disappointment, Steve had already turned off the lights and was snoring into the pillows.

When no amount of erotic ministrations brought the desired rousing results, Tony gave up, frustrated. Too riled up to sleep, he went back down to the hotel's bar. James Rhodes arrived a little later to find his best friend looking subdued and deep in thought. With two bottles of Corona, they drank in companionable silence for a while. Eventually though, Rhodes mustered up enough courage to address the topic.  
  
“What's the deal with you and Wayne there, for heaven's sake? Something's up ever since Miami.”  
  
Tony glimpsed at his best friend, propped his elbows up on the counter, and rubbed his face in his palms. "He's a fuckin riddle on two legs. And I... might be wishing he was sitting right here, stop be confusing, I... dunno." James furrowed his brows, licked his lips and began to shake his head in slow motion. He shoved his meanwhile empty bottle away from him and brushed both hands over his jeans-clad thighs.

"That's bad, Tones. That's real bad. I thought you and Steve had worked things out.” Like he had been singed, Tony's head shot up at the mention of his boyfriend's name.  “I know! I know we have. I had shitty timing, he was overwhelmed and – that's it. Learned my lesson.” Rhodes' brows furrowed. “That's not what I meant. What happened wasn't anybody's fault. But wedding or no wedding, that thing with Wayne...”

Tony dropped his palms to trace the counter. When he looked at his friend, his eyes held a certain weariness. “... is nothing, platypus, okay?! It's just some... flight of fancy or something. It'll pass.” From where he had been standing in the foyer of the hotel for the longest time, hidden by a marble pillar, Steve gripped the doorknob tight. Without a sound, he backed off and headed straight for the gym once more.

He destroyed a whole, solid punch bag that night with his mighty, unrelenting blows.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Tennessee, Bristol Motor Speedway, 24th  August 2013

  
It was time for the big Irwin Tools Night Race in Tennessee; one of the most eventful races of the whole Sprint series.

“Let's all not try to be heroes. Let's do our jobs, do the best we can for a long, long race.”  
Tony's voice sounded amending, almost pleading over the comm. Steve bit his bottom lip.  
“We got it in us, we're just going to dig deep, we're going to fight - and then we'll be fine.”  
  
Jarvis did a final sweep over all five monitors in front of him. “All right boys, focus and execute, we'll be in good shape.” Obadiah Stane had the final words for his team before green flag. “When the sun goes down, the speeds go up. That's what I'm wanting to see from you, guys.” Barton grinned. “10-4, let's swing hard.” As it turned out, Clint was having a field day in Bristol, coming out on position 5 by using the outside lane.  
  
“Think it's going to get single file. I'll stay here a little further.” Keeping an eye on him, James Rhodes confirmed his strategy. “Yeah, figured. You're good there. Stay up high, mind the #22.” James' counterpart spotter at WE Racing also instructed his driver to the unforeseen situation at hand. “I know you won't get crazy, Clark, but this little shit in the #48 behind you might. Be on your toes.” Clark smirked behind his visor.

“Don't worry, Jim, I'm good. It's about his bedtime here in about 25 minutes anyhow.” It prompted his spotter to break into a rare chuckle as well. After a while with Kent sitting right in front of him, Clint, in fact, decided to get a little pushier. Rhodey's warning voice still tried to hold him back. “They're real tight in front of you. Bumper-to-bumper, real tight. The first 12 to 15 cars are all single file still.”

Barton, however, tried to squeeze in – and promptly got rewarded. Two rounds later, Jim Gordon was back in Clark's ear. “The #48 ran against the wall to get to you, lost like six spots.” Kent chuckled. “Will he never learn.” Bruce keyed in. “Looked like he chopped you as well.” His teammate grinned into the mouthpiece. “Yup. Not getting chopped by him no more now.” Right after the restart, Gordon then addressed his other driver.

“You're chasing that mofo hard there – looking good, Bruce. Looking good.” From where he was sitting bumper to bumper with Stark's Chevy, Wayne smirked. “How many laps left?” Fox answered him in a matter of seconds. “Got 15 right now.” Bruce's smirk turned feral. “Almost where I want to be. Give you something to watch.” Over at the SI pit box, James Rhodes switched camera positions on his monitors and frowned.

“21 is up your ass, Tones.”  
Upon Rhodey's info, Steve pulled high up the lane and watched Bruce Wayne tailing Stark.  
“And don't'cha like it.”

“What's that supposed to mean, Steve?”  
Tony's voice was clipped, aggressive. Then Stane interfered.  
“Cut the crap there, boys. A couple more laps, nice and smooth.”

Rogers had just come back from 16th on the final restart, on much fresher tires, and found himself chasing down Wayne, who in turn was chasing Tony for the top spot, exchanging the lead several times. So far, Bruce Wayne had managed to hold off Steve over the last 40 laps. It was the seventh race of the season where Rogers was within striking distance but remained unable to overtake Wayne.  
  
It had started with Bruce lining up just two rows behind him, leaving them no real a chance to separate. By now Steve's blood was close to boiling. Down the line, James Rhodes then managed to divert his attention. “#22 pitted for four last time, restarted way back there. He's all the way back up to four already.” Before either Tony or Steve could comment, Obadiah Stane boomed within their headphones. “I'm sure we'll have to deal with him.”  
  
It was then that Tony reported uncommon troubles with his tires. “Guys, I'm gonna have to do something, cause either we got a wheel coming off, or a square tire there.” His voice was disbelieving and annoyed. Jarvis piped in, calm as usual. “Copy. Get down to pit lane right now. We'll get tires to it, we got time.” As it turned out, time was not the one thing that was not on Tony Stark's side that day when the jack broke under his car.

It ultimately cost SI Racing precious minutes until Tony's #13 was able to get back on track. Frustration was high all around team and crew as he missed out on a whole lap. “All right J, now where does that put us?” Jarvis calculated within milliseconds. “23rd.” Tony clicked his tongue in dismay. “10-4. Looks like I'm going to race my ass off.” Still, no amount of speeding was able to get him back to a decent position.

With Tony out of commission, Steve was more than determined not to grant Wayne any leverage. His spotter, however, was more focused on the other WE Racing driver. “That 22 is strong. It doesn't matter where he goes.” With gritted teeth, Rogers eyed the black Ford Fusion in front of him. “Got enough trouble with the 21. He's really fast, man. I don't really have anything for him right now.”  
  
With Steve hard on Bruce's heels, the two of them were soon racing side-by-side during the final lap. It was then that Wayne's Ford made contact with Rogers' Chevy in turn one, slowing both of their momenta. James Rhodes then heard his driver curse out loud inside his helmet. “He just body-slammed me, the fucking 21!” The SI spotter still tried to talk him down. “Be smart, be smart, Steve. He just tried to turn you – get on out of there.”

It was already too late; both Wayne and Rogers had lost precious seconds due to recalibrating their cars. It allowed a distant Clark Kent to close up. “I'm going to take the top, Jim.” His voice sounded breathless over the comm. Gordon pushed his heavy glasses back up on his nose. “10-4, take the top. Clean 'em off and get a good finish, Clark, you know what to do from here!” Kent pressed his foot down hard and whooshed past.

The checkered flag got waved, and he had his first victory in Bristol.

“Heck, yeah! Yes! I can't believe it! Guys, we did it! Oh my gosh!” Over the loud whooping and cheering of Jim Gordon and the crew via radio, Wayne gave a deep chuckle into his ear. “That's how you do it with a statement. They're going to stop you in a special place called victory lane.” His voice left no room to argue that Bruce was priding himself on handing the win over to his friend.  
  
Even if Clark felt it was not the right way of getting appeased after their previous quarrels, he had no time to address the topic with a beaming Gothamite. Wayne was at his best, faux-charming persona. “ Rogers was not going to win that race,” Bruce said to the crowd of reporters swarming their box later on. “And I wanted Clark to win that race. I feel like he had the car to win the race. I was right.”

* * *

Seeing WE Racing was able to get another pole position in, SI's team manager was not the least bit happy. Immediately post-race, he conducted a meeting with several team officials to vent his anger and frustrations. “Why haven't I gotten any intel on WE Racing so far? Are there problems in getting the channel?” Obadiah Stane's imposing figure loomed above the handful of pit crew members.

“We can get our radios programmed to monitor _any_ team on the scan list for a given race, Sir.”  
The bald man leaned down into the crew member's face.  
“Then do it. I want to know every goddamn move they take – _before_ they take it.”  
  
Turning around, he saw Steve Rogers standing in the doorway. Serious doubts lingered on his face. Obadiah was quick to put an arm around his muscular frame and steered him out of the crew's earshot. “If you don't cheat, you look like an idiot; if you cheat and don't get caught, you look like a hero; if you cheat and get caught, you look like a dope. Put me and my team where we belong, Steven."

For a while, the blonde said nothing, jaw working as he glimpsed around the hustle and bustle of the SI workshop.  
“All I want to is to race Wayne the way he raced me.”  
Stane's left eyebrow rose, almost diabolical, at the young man and his clenched fists in front of him.

“Oh, your day will come, my boy – and I'll be supporting you best way I can.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

Alabama, Talladega Superspeedway 20th  October 2013

Things were going strong, right in the middle of the Chase for the Championship. After 32 races, Tony Stark still had the upper hand with 2250 points. Bruce Wayne was hot on his heels, however, with just 34 points short. “The track turns are banked at 33 degrees – steepest around. Careful and see how the car is faring.” Bruce heard the voice of his crew chief over the headphones and re-gripped the steering wheel.  
  
“Some things are made to be taken to the test, Lucius.”

In another box, a team manager also prepped his crew, his voice hollering through the headphones. “Alright guys, let's have two things today – let's have fun and let's be aggressive.” Obadiah Stane left no room to argue. To him, both instructions came in equal shares. “Obie's right - nothing to it, we know how to do this.” Upon Tony's pep talk, Steve chimed in. “Yeah, let's get a nice solid finish out of it, good luck.”

The majority of the first part of the race was two lanes that could never really pull ahead of one another. Some drivers moved up a few spots, others fell a few, but most of them were content with letting the race click away in the early stages. “Be more aggressive in running those guys up the track when you get inside of them instead of tip-toeing around them, Barton.” Clint took the advice of his crew chief a little too much to heart.

His heedless maneuvers caused two other cars to swerve around and drift into the barriers. Clark was right in the middle on the straightaway, doing 200-plus miles per hour when the driver in front of him lost control of his car. “Hang on to it, outside, outside. Hang on to it, outside.” Jim Gordon's voice was almost overturning, but Clark was able to calm him down. “I didn't spin, I just got real loose. I... should have spun.”

“That #48 packed a shit ton of air underneath you, man. He was right on your ass.” Lucius Fox' smooth voice held a tinge of chagrin. Then Bruce piped in, dry and sardonic as usual. “You lucky bastard, Clark.” Kent's arms shook from the force he applied to the steering wheel as he wrestled to stay in line. “Yeah – but I won't make anything remotely top four now... it's up to you. Go get em for me, killer.”  
  
Despite being immune to goading most of the time, Bruce still toyed with the idea for a moment. “Your wish shall be my command.” High up the pit box, Lucius Fox shared a look with Jim Gordon. “No reckless stunts down there, Bruce. Keep it nice and easy. Only eight more laps to go.” But Bruce Wayne did not want to do nice and easy. He was out for the kill. His fingers clawed tight around the steering wheel as he pressed his foot down.

He spun out Barton after a wild chase for four laps, and efficiently managed to block Rogers from taking second place for another three laps. During the final lap, however, at an average speed of 189 mph, things then took a turn for the worse. After a deliberate maneuver from Steve's approaching Chevy, Bruce's Ford got hit in an odd angle in the right rear quarter panel.  
  
At 177 mph, it sent him flying high into the track’s fencing, where his car ricocheted off the SAFER barriers and got hit again by a bypassing Toyota, about 300 feet from the finish. The crowd roared as sparks and debris flew all over the racetrack, and the mangled Ford did a scary amount of flips and barrel rolls before it crash-landed on its roof. The commentators were just as agitated as the spectators.

_"Rogers in his number 1 has turned over Wayne in his 21 Ford, and... oh boy, do we have a caution!”_

From Tony's place at pole position, he was unable to properly hear the announcer's voice over the speakers, and unable see what was going on behind. His eyes darted back and forth between the track and his rearview mirror as he pressed the push-to-talk switch attached to the steering wheel, trying to concentrate to keep his car in line. “Steve? Steve, what the fuck is going on back there?”  
  
“Freaking 21 drilled the 48, so I drilled the 21. So tired of that bastard. Guess we’re even now.“

The late-race caution ultimately pushed the event past its advertised distance and initiated a Green-White-Checkered finish. In no time, commotion was high around the remains of Wayne's car. The Ford was totaled; firemen and emergency service personnel were already swarming around to put out fumes that were licking from the wreckage.

Outside the SI pit box, Tony kept his eyes on the big screen where the destroyed car was shown, trying to spot its driver. After a while that seemed like an eternity, he saw how Bruce slowly dragged himself out of the overturned wreck. Wayne then stumbled onto the grass to lie flat on his back, helmet still on. Stark held his breath as two medics dropped down next to the Gothamite. After a brief conversation, they tried to help him up.  
  
When Wayne sagged in their grip, the medics carefully heaved him onto a stretcher and wheeled him over to a nearby ambulance. A tow truck then removed the smoldering remains of the Ford Fusion from the track. As soon as the track had been cleared of all debris, Tony Stark needed two out of the three officially issued attempts to get the race to conclude under green, securing himself pole position after all in the end.

When his spotter approached him in their pit box after Victory Lane, Tony all but slapped off his arm. “I know Steve didn't want to flip him, but if Wayne is seriously hurt, he's in for some trouble!” Like most times, James Rhodes tried to be the voice of reason. “We all know Steve is a great driver. And even if it wasn't characteristic of him to spin Wayne out, there's no way he intended to flip him, Tones, okay? Calm the heck down.“

Obadiah Stane had a cold glint in his eyes. “Pipe down, Tony. You seem to forget Wayne has done many idiotic things, like outrunning Steve down pit lane three months ago. Steve venting his frustrations was long overdue. Everyone else would have done the same in his place.“ Just then, the man in question appeared in the team box and focused on his irate lover. “Are you complaining about me handing you pole on a silver platter?”  
  
Enraged, Tony swung around and pointed at him. “This is not how we fight, Steve, god fuckin dammit! I could've gotten pole with my friggin' eyes closed, and you still decided to fuck Wayne up back there. What the hell is it with you?” The blonde eyed his partner with cool, calculating eyes. “I had your back out there, like always. But you nearly went and let yourself get screwed over. What the hell is wrong with _you?”_ Tony pointed at him.  
  
“It's called morals, Steve. You're always so fond of them; use 'em as well.”  
  
For a moment, Steve looked as if he was about to lash out. Instead, he snorted and shook his head. “Whatever. I'm done here.” Like a bullet, Tony shot forward and grabbed his arm. “Oh, we're not done.” Blue met brown in a silent stare down, to which the rest of the team had no connection to. “For today, we are.” Steve brushed off his hand, and simultaneously past Tony, as he left the box.

 


	20. Chapter 20

“How is he?”  
  
Clark caught up with Alfred Pennyworth in a waiting area of the Citizens Baptist Medical Center; a 20-minute drive by car from the racetrack. Wayne had initially been treated in the infield care center at Talladega but had to get helicoptered out to a nearby hospital for further evaluation.  
  
“Responsive, and in the foulest mood imaginable.”  
Kent's shoulders sagged a little in relief, and a sigh escaped his lips.  
“Thank God. They are showing close-ups of the crash everywhere, and I...”

He shuddered at the horrifying slow-motion images of Bruce's car hitting the wall, getting torn apart and flipping multiple times, before coming to a scorching halt in what only could be described as pieces. The elder team manager tried for confidence, despite looking worried as well.

“Master Bruce had an armada of guardian angels by his side, it seems. The doctors said he came within a whisker of a compression fracture in his lower back; any more pressure and he would have to deal with a collapsed vertebrae and 10 weeks of bed rest.”  
  
Clark hunkered down to fit into a plastic seat. His face resembled a strained mask, and he ran both palms through his sweated hair. He had not bothered to shower post-race, and only slipped into some jeans and shirt after he shed his fire suit. “Will he be alright? Does he need to get any surgery at all? When can we see him?” Alfred put a soothing weathered hand upon the younger man's nervously twitching thigh and smiled.  
  
“Everything is going to be alright, Clark, try not to worry too much. He is alive - and able to walk.”   
The man from Kansas lowered his head and nodded, looking at the pale-gray linoleum between his feet.   
“I know, it's just – I wish it would've been me instead of him. I... hate to see him getting hurt, Alfred.”

“It always is hard to see those you love suffer, Clark, but Bruce would not want you to blame yourself.”  
After a couple of deep breaths, Kent eventually bobbed his head again, and he gave the tiniest smirk.  
“It's probably a good thing he doesn't see or hear me now.”

Another amicable pat to his thigh, then Alfred removed his hand and looked over to where a door opened and closed, way down the corridor. “Mister Pennyworth?” At the nurse's call, both men rose to their feet. Alfred grabbed a small suitcase he had brought along, circumspect as always. “Yes?”  
  
“You may go in and see him now. Please keep your visit under ten minutes.” When she eyed Clark's nervous form with something close to objection, Alfred ushered him forward with a gentle, but firm hand in the small of his back. “This young gentleman is even more eagerly awaited for than me, I believe.” His benign smile left no ground to argue, and they marched on.

The single bedroom was huge and had lots of windows. It was brightly illuminated and in possession of a huge flat screen TV that was switched off. From where Bruce Wayne was laying flat on his back, staring out into the dark of the autumn evening, his eyes flew to the door as soon as Clark peeked in. The right side of his face was iodized around a gash on his cheekbone, and a gauze pad sat higher up on his temple.  
  
At the profound love that shone back at him through bright blue eyes, the Gothamite managed a lopsided grin. “Looks like I messed up.” In an instant, Clark was by his side, with Alfred following close second. “Not if you intended to scare the living daylights out of me.” Despite knowing how uncomfortable Bruce was with open displays of affection, Clark still bent down to kiss him on the lips. They were too warm and slightly chapped.  
  
When he felt Bruce pinch his mouth and move his head away, Clark opened his eyes and drew back. Wayne was watching his elder confidant who was discreetly hovering in the back, putting a set of toiletries and fresh clothes into the bathroom and closet. “Alfred? What are the final stats for tonight?” Incredulous, Clark's eyebrows rose. “That's really the one thing on your mind right now?”  
  
Wayne threw him a reproaching glance and focused back on his team manager. Alfred reappeared from the bathroom and switched off its lights. “Stark made pole, as expected. Rogers got himself 28 points, Barton came in on the 32nd.” Something like tired vexation hushed over Bruce's countenance. “The faster I get out of here and back on track, the better.” His boyfriend put a large palm on the blanket, on level with his heart.  
  
“I think that's not your most pressing concern here, Bruce. Your back is seriously banged up.”  
Said man tried to shift upwards, but got stopped by the gentle pressure upon his chest.  
“I'm _not_ a cripple, Clark.”  
  
Kent watched him struggle against his hand but did not make a move to take it away. “No, but you're the guy who just turned Talladega into a blasted _Cirque du Soleil_ show tonight, okay?!“ Bruce Wayne instantly stopped moving. His eyes narrowed to slits. “So you're saying this was all my fault?” Clark had already inhaled to form a reply when Alfred stepped closer to the bedside, diverting their attention.

“Master Bruce, I believe what Master Clark here wants to say is that you need to give your body proper time to rest and heal. And he is right.”

Outnumbered and outvoted, Bruce glowered along. “Quit your fussing, I don't want any of your help. When can we leave?” His petulant resistance almost caused Kent to grab his partner and shake some sense into him. “Why don't you understand how worried we are? Have you seen the footage? Do you know what...” Like so many times before, it took less than five seconds for Bruce to shut his face down completely.  
  
“I _know_ that I'm heading out here as soon as possible. I need to get away from all of this. End of story.”  
Clark's big blue eyes darted over to those of Alfred Pennyworth.  
When the elder man shrugged with uncommon defeat, he, too could not do anything else but to give a small incline of the head.  
  
“Okay.”

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor heads-up for some consensual third base stuff in this one..

Alabama, 22nd October 2013

  
' _NASCAR Talladega 2013: Steve Rogers and Bruce Wayne feud escalates after last-lap crash'_  
  
From his seat outside on the patio, Tony stared at the headline of SB Nation on his tablet. Rogers and Wayne were still dominating the social media headlines after what had happened two days ago. He and Steve had not spoken more than a handful of words ever since the wreckage accident.

"It's time he learns a lesson,", Rogers had said in a post-race interview regarding Wayne's mishap. "He's nothing but a rich kid who's never had to work in his life. Besides, our team was going strong all day. We were super-fast, led a lot of laps, got pole in the end, that's for sure – we're still very proud of that."

Reading his lover's statements online made Tony grind his jaw. Steve had remained unapologetic, even when they were informed that Wayne had to be airlifted to a local hospital. He scrolled down to read the rest of the article, eyes fastening on the very last sentence.

 _'The Sprint Cup Series will be heading to Miami on 17_ _th_ _November. With Homestead Speedway being one of Roger's best circuits, and Wayne starting to show consistent speed, this feud seems far from over'_

Tony's thumb moved over to click the pad shut with a frown. His many sources of information had told him Wayne suffered an injury in the lower back; something that could easily be the death of a driver's career. If he would be able to make a full recovery during the next weeks remained to be seen. Stark then reached for his mobile and propped his feet up the banister as he waited for the line to get picked up.  
  
“Pep? Hey babe, how are you? I'm fine and dandy, and... oh, you already heard. Hm. Well, anyhow – I need you to do me a favor. Call up SB Nation and give a statement on the latest events.” His personal assistant took less than five seconds to prepare for his dictation. Tony cleared his throat. “We're hoping for a speedy recovery, and for Wayne to be out there, racing at Texas 500.”  
  
He could practically hear the heavy alarm bells and protests within his assistant's breathed silence.  
“Will that be all, Mister Stark?”  
In one swift move, Tony was on his feet, overlooking the picturesque forest scenery down below.  
  
“Yes, that will be all, Miss Potts. Thanks, darling, you're the best. Bye.”

* * *

“He did _what?”  
_ Steve's voice rose a few notches towards the end. Rhodes nodded and scrolled down on his mobile.  
“Yeah, I just got a text from Pepper. It's out in the open already, so...”

He held the tweet from the official SI Racing account over for Rogers to read. The blonde's eyes flew over the 87 characters, then Steve clenched his teeth. “Has he spoken to you about this first?” Rhodes negated and pocketed his phone again. “If Tony wants something, he gets it. You know him.” Steve cut him off with an even more vigorous shake of the head. “Doesn't mean we have to stand on the sidelines all the time.”

A short walk later, he entered the familiar motorcoach with its trademark Stark Industries logo on the side. Inside it smelled of aromatic coffee, familiar shower gel, and well-functioning heating. Steve knocked once on the ajar door to the office part of the huge trailer and entered immediately after. “Why aren't we talking about those things first?” His left eyebrow arching upwards, Tony put down the digital pen.  
  
“Good afternoon to you, too. About which things, sugarballs?” With a resolute push, Steve closed the door behind him. Tony made a move to save his progress on what looked to be some sort of 3D engine block. “You tweeting for the team. It sets a bad example.” With a peculiar tug around the mouth, Stark then removed his pair of reading glasses and put it aside. “You came over here just to lecture me on tweeting?”  
  
His tone was mock-teasing and caused Steve to step closer to him. “I'm serious, Tony.” From behind long lashes, said man glimpsed up to where his boyfriend loomed and rose to his feet. “Too serious, Steve-O.” Their height difference had never bothered either, but there and then, Steve purposely straightened up. “I may have to make myself more clear.” With a strong push, Steve shoved him back on the smooth surface of the desk.

One hand pressed down on Tony's chest while his other went for the zipper of his denims. Hovering between panicked and aroused, the other man raised his head to see what was happening further south. “You've been a bad boy, Tony, and you know what happens to bad boys?” His pulse quickening, Stark licked his dry lips and blinked as Steve's strong fingers freed his half-mast arousal from its confines. “They get shown the ropes.”  
  
Without further ado, Rogers swallowed all of him. A long, drawn-out moan escaped Tony's lips as his head dropped back onto the desktop with a thud, and his fingers clawed left and right of the table, into some kind of paperwork he could not care less about. Steve was relentless on his dick, but after a blissful couple of minutes, Tony found his tongue again. “Steve, we have to... egads…baby…baby, fuck…stop…”  
  
Taking his lips off with a wettish plop, Steve's blue stormy eyes wander up to meet Tony's dazed gaze. “You really want me to stop now?” With unseeing eyes and a shaking finger, Tony pointed over Steve's torso. “Nghh... door. Th... goddamn door isn't locked. What if...” Rogers gave a very naughty grin while his hand kept on milking Tony's length. “You just gotta be fast then. I think you can do that.”

With a gasp, Tony dug his fingernails into Steve’s scalp as he moved to deepthroat him; sucking as hard as he could. With his eyes rolling into the back of his head, Tony came in less than two minutes, thighs quivering and trying desperately to muffle his moans. For the next couple of moments, all that filled the air was Tony's hard breathing, his incoherent and repetitive mumblings of Steve's name.  
  
“You're forgiven.”  
The dreamy way in which he said it, fingers threading through the blonde strands, caused Steve's triumphant smile to lessen in intensity.  
“I didn't come here for absolution. I got nothing to apologize for.”

Stark fumbled his pants back up and slid off the glass desk, leaving a slight sheen of perspiration in the form of his buttocks behind. “Fuck, Steve, don't gimme this right now. I just got the heck of a... no, wait, _the_ blowjob of a lifetime even; I don't wanna get into a war on principles here!” Rogers wiped his mouth, put his arms akimbo, and looked his debauched lover up and down. His jaw worked, but he did not speak.  
  
Turning around, Steve was by the door in four long strides and yanked it open.  
Before he left, however, he did look over his shoulder one last time.  
“Then don't start one.”

 


	22. Chapter 22

Alabama, 26th October 2013  


Seeing Tony had been unable to inquire about Bruce's condition after his crash, he set out to keep tabs on Wayne the day he got released from the hospital. Getting a hold of the Gothamite proved to be a major issue; the latter had gone into hiding to escape the hassle of the media. Once Tony had the information he was looking for, he went by public transportation as to not draw attention to himself and his well-known, fancy sports cars.  
  
A long bus ride later, he found himself on a deserted road's end, in a secluded area on the fringes of the city. Alabama's State Parks were as diverse as they were pretty, with lush green vegetation everywhere. A mid-sized camper RV stood in front of a sun-withered, wooden shag, surrounded by forest. Tony squinted ahead. The man in question lay sprawled underneath an expensive looking speed bike.  
  
For a while, Stark watched two long legs in grease-stained, faded denims move about on the concrete floor. After a little while, the rest of Wayne's body came into view as he looked for another tool. In an instant, their eyes met, and the Gothamite froze for a split second so that Tony could get a good view. Bruce was sporting a few abrasions on his right cheekbone, as well as a new and clean, almost buzz cut.  
  
A huge frown was plastered all over his unshaven face, and Tony was quick to put up a self-reassured smirk. “Hiya there. Now, this doesn't look like a bedridden afternoon to me at all.” Wayne got into a sitting position and wiped his wrist over his forehead, leaving a smear of grease. The way he moved was with care, almost a little stiff. “How did you get here? What do you want?”  
  
Hazel eyes glared up at him in disbelief and displeasure. Tony widened his best, Cheshire cat grin. “By bus. And just to check if your head's still on, s'all.” The Gothamite toyed with the wrench in his hand before he prepared to lower himself again. “Rogers would've preferred if it wasn't. Bastard.” Tony tsked for him to hear. “No hard feelings, okay? Steve's just got a very competitive streak and such.”

Wayne looked at him with narrowed eyes, not enthused about his halfhearted apology. “I'm gonna show him where he can shove it the next time, go tell him that.” With a humorless smirk, Stark snorted and moved nearer, kicking up pebbles. “Yup, head's still on and working just fine. And you're still an asshat. Consider my mission done.” Wayne rose with a stifled groan and threw the wrench back into the toolbox.  
  
“Your boyfriend's trying to go for the kill, and _I'm_ the asshat? He's got you hooked real good there.”  
Tony's eyes turned hard at the private jibe and overbearing tone in Bruce's voice.  
“Cut out the sad violin music, crybaby, everybody in the Sprint gets wrecked once in a while.”  
  
He then watched a dirty rag being thrown down right in front of his feet. “Keep that in mind for when we blow you guys off this season.” For the tiniest of moments, Tony had a real cheeky remark on his tongue. He held it, however, and eyed the black and orange machine with its 'Repsol' logo instead. “So you're a true petrol head then, huh? Cars and bikes as well?” Wayne started to work on his motorcycle again, openly ignoring him.  
  
Interest piqued, Stark proceeded to walk around him and the Honda, arms crossed in front of his chest. With a curious, slightly impressed gaze at the motorbike, Tony then tilted his head. “Never been on one of those baddies. Are they any good?” Bruce continued to fumble around with the radiator guard of his Fireblade and said nothing. Tony shoved his palms flat into the back pockets of his jeans and blew out his cheeks.  
  
“Oookay, you know what – forget it. This was a stupid idea. So... get well soon and see you at the Texas 500.”  
A small, sardonic smile hushed over Bruce's features as he wiped his hands clean on another oil rag.  
“If you got here by bus, the last one back left about fifteen minutes ago.”  
  
Stark looked from him over to the bus stop in the distance multiple times, mouth ajar. Eventually, he tilted his head back and groaned. "Fuck my life. How far until real population?” The other man collected all of his tools and clicked the box shut. “Twelve miles; maybe more, maybe less.” A glimpse at his watch, then Tony clicked his tongue. “Rhodey always says I don't do enough cardio.” He squinted up into the late afternoon sky.

“Gonna hurry before it gets dark.”  
  
After he had turned around to leave, shuffling erupted, and Wayne's quiet voice told him to wait. Dumbfounded, Tony stared at the black helmet held out in his direction. Bruce, however, did not look at him and stared at something on the ground instead. “Put it on, I'll take you downtown.”

Five minutes later, Tony Stark sat behind Bruce Wayne upon the pillion of the tuned Honda.Putting his feet onto each of the pegs, he debated where to put his hands. After the first real curve, Tony gave up clutching left and right of his seat and relented to wrapping his arms around Bruce's waist. Wayne had thrown over a leather jacket, but Tony's fingers brushed against something he identified as some sort of lower back brace.

Swallowing behind his visor, Tony wanted to draw his hands away but earned himself a stern shake of the head from his driver. He left them where they were but inched them a trifle higher until he was able to feel the warmth of Bruce's torso under his palms. The machine purred as Wayne wound through the unpopulated roads with speed and expertise. Tony was used to accompanying Steve on his Harley, but the feeling was different.

With Steve, it was leisure cruising; a safe and secure way to watch the scenery and get the feel of the machine. On the aggressive speed bike, Tony had to claw his fingers tight around Bruce's midriff to not get thrown off at the slightest turn in the road. The Honda was a beast as it screamed in his ears, right through the helmet, and each and every bump on the road was palpable up to an almost painful extent.

It was dangerous and thrilling, and Tony found he liked it. A lot.

Even if he exceeded speeding limits, Bruce kept a fairly moderate pace, and they reached population in less than 20 minutes. He got them through the stationary traffic of rush hour with a lot of ducking and weaving that made Tony tighten his grip even more. The grin behind his visor, however, spoke volumes. Once they had to stop at a red light, Bruce ever so slightly turned his head to look over his shoulder.  
  
He received a thumbs up and an amiable pat on the shoulder, and turned back around with a curt nod.  
  
His tiny smirk, too, remained unseen by his pillion passenger.  
  
At first, Stark thought Wayne would throw him out upon first chance at the city limits sign. He was surprised to find the other man winding down through the darkening streets further and further, until the hotel where the SI team was staying at until the next race came into view. On the parking lot, Tony swung his leg off the machine and pulled the helmet off. “Awesome ride.” Leaving the engine running, Wayne pushed his visor up.  
  
Tony ran a hand through his matted hair and wanted to hand the helmet over. Bruce shook his head no. “These don't come with a storage space. Give it back some other time.” His voice was muffled, and he closed the visor with a snap before Stark even had time to utter his gratitude for the lift. Seconds later, Bruce revved the Honda, and Tony was left to watch him speed off into the approaching dusk of the warm, autumn evening.

 


	23. Chapter 23

Texas, Texas Motor Speedway, 3rd  November 2013

  
The evening before the Texas race, Tony Stark sauntered by the WE Racing motorcoach and knocked. When Clark Kent answered him, Tony dramatically slipped off his Ray-Bans and made a big show out of re-checking the name badge outside once. “Bruce ain't here? Thought this is his trailer.” Kent leaned a massive shoulder against the door frame and crossed his arms. “It is. What do you want, Stark?”

A fake and lewd grin broke out on Tony's face. He held up the matte black helmet. “Just wanted to return this. No scratches whatsoever. Tell Bruce thanks a lot from me.” From the look on Clark's face, the shorter man knew he had just stirred up a hornet's nest. When the Gothamite returned half an hour later, Kent was sitting at the luxurious dinette. Bruce's eyes immediately flew to the familiar item that throned right atop the table.

Clark then raised his head to look at him. “You had a visitor. And this was the reason for his visit.” His fingers traced the visor. “Anything you'd like to share with me, maybe?” Bruce glanced from the helmet over to Kent's baiting eyes and back. “Nothing of importance, no.” In one fluid motion, Clark stood up and flung the helmet at him. His quick reflexes got Bruce to catch it just in time. Kent then brushed past, grabbing his jacket.  
  
“Very well then.”  
  
He was out of the camper before Bruce could call after him.

* * *

If anything, their second Texas race left a memorable impression, if not as much of a pleasant one as back in April. Bruce and Clark had not talked to each other during all pre-race events, leading to Jim Gordon taking Clark aside before he disappeared inside his Ford. "What the heck is going on?" Blue eyes narrowed, not looking at the car in front. “Nothing.”

He escaped another question of the Commissioner by slipping on his helmet and crawling through the window. Gordon cast Lucius Fox a knowing look before he stepped aside as a crew member fixated the HANS device for Kent. The crew chief took his cue and leaned over to peek inside the matte black Ford. “Whatever the reason for this tough love may be, I hope it won't affect today's performance.”

Most of Bruce Wayne's face was already hidden behind his head restraint and helmet. His dead serious eyes flew up to Fox. “Professional as always, Lucius.” Skeptical, the elder man patted the driver's door one last time before the window net got fixated tight. “Fast groove and a safe race, Bruce.”

330 laps into the race, Kent had led a for him uncommon aggressive pace, securing him 4th position. Bruce, who had practically sat on his bumper for the majority of the past 150 laps, eventually had enough of tailgating and tried to go three-wide. Clark however, did not budge an inch, and it was Jim Gordon who saw it coming, however unable to prevent it from happening.

“Shit! Keep high, keep high, Bruce! Clark, what the hell you think you're... - that's too tight... focus! FOCUS!”  
  
Clenching his teeth and his fists around the steering wheel, the Gothamite sensed rather than saw his teammate grazing him. With only 4 laps to go, contact between the two sent Bruce's Ford slithering sideways, cutting his left rear tire, and causing him to spin in turn 4, while Kent roared away unscathed. It ultimately led to a caution period and a green-white-checkered finish, and Bruce found himself 14th in the final rundown.  
  
Some other team's driver scored the win that night, seeing Tony Stark had been spun out and ended up being 11th. Steve Rogers had gotten wrecked mid-race, and so Clint Barton was the only one able to score the most points ever in his present series that day, leading to merry cheers.

Back at WE Racing's pit stall, however, tempers soon boiled over; escalating into some kind of post-race brawl.

Jim Gordon wisely moved out of the way as Wayne threw his helmet aside and pointed at Kent. “How could you, Clark? How _could_ you?!” The last part was pressed between gritted teeth. “You stabbed me in the fucking back - spun me out with four laps to go. Wrecked me on purpose! So much for being teammates. So much for being friends. I trusted you!”  
  
Kent took in Wayne's flushed cheeks as his voice rose with each sentence until he was close to yelling. “Now you know how I feel, Bruce. I trusted you, too - but apparently, that wasn't such a good idea.” Seething, the Gothamite swirled around to face him again after noticing the curious faces in the back. “Because of what, Clark? Because of a childish bout of jealousy?”  
  
At the gloves flying into his direction, Kent balled his fists and breathed in hard through his nose. “Stop throwing a tantrum here which is even more childish.” When Wayne looked ready to tackle him, their team manager intervened. A huge, weathered palm then came down to rest on Bruce's shoulder. "The two of you need to discuss this somewhere quiet and more private."

Despite Alfred's authority, Bruce shook him off and jabbed an arm into Clark's direction. "He picked my rear tires off the ground and wrecked me! There's no discussion about that one!" After glaring daggers at all other present team and crew members around, most of them were quick to scurry away. Lucius Fox spoke a few hushed words with Alfred Pennyworth, to which the elder man nodded and followed him outside.

Once they were alone, Bruce slammed both hands on a workbench and sneered at his comrade.  
“You want us to be competitors, Kent? I can do that. You want to play hardball, you can have it.”  
At that, Clark started to look truly crestfallen.  
  
“Bruce, I – that's... that's not what I want.” He tried to reach out and touch his irate teammate, but the Gothamite drew away. His hazel eyes were cold as ice. "You probably sleep real good tonight, Clark, I hope you enjoy that one." They then narrowed to menacing slits. “I'm not test-driving with you anymore. Go take the first session. Good night.” Wayne was up on his feet and out of the door in two seconds.  



	24. Chapter 24

Arizona, November 7th 2013  
  
  
"Well, well, well, if that isn't the one and only Anthony Stark. Still getting your hands dirty yourself?"  
  
From where he had been lying backward on a mechanic creeper, Tony peeked up into the face of a man in his late twenties or early thirties. He had brown, medium-length hair and carried a sports' satchel square across his chest. Tony's eyes narrowed in confusion as he rolled out from underneath his Chevy. "This garage's coded. How did you get in?" The man's handsome face morphed into a smart grin.

"Steve gave it to me. He said it'd be alright, seeing we wanted to meet here at 12 for lunch." A glimpse at the watch over the door revealed the reason for Steve's absence. "Looks like I'm a bit early." Tony made a move to stand up, wiping the back of his wrist over a spot on his temple. "Yeah, like, an hour, give or take?! But, uh, help me out here - you are...?"

"James. James Barnes."  
About two inches shorter than his unannounced visitor, Tony eyed him from head to toe.  
"I'm afraid that doesn't ring any bells."

From where he had been busy texting, James' piercing, light blue eyes looked up, sparkling with glee.  
"That's entirely Steve's fault. He always calls me..."  
The sound of a door opening and closing in the back prevented Tony from answering.

"Bucky!"  
Steve's face lit up like the sun. He moved up to engulf the other man in a bear hug.  
"Man, it's been _ages!"_

Standing aside, Tony shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn-out pair of jeans and tried hard not to pout, until his boyfriend was quick to grace him with a peck on the lips. "Sorry hon, I forgot to tell you. Bucky here has been in town since last week, and..." All suave, Stark waved his boyfriend off. “Nah, it's fine, really.” He eyed the tall blonde in his running outfit. “What kind of lunch are you planning to go to, dressed like that?”  
  
Steve glanced down at himself. “Wanted to go for a quick run actually, but now that Bucky's already here...” Barnes patted his nylon bag. “I'd be up for a quick sprint around the block. And then lunch after?” Enthusiastic, Steve clapped his shoulder. “Great idea. You can change down the corridor, to the left.” Before Barnes left, he stopped around one more time. “Maybe Tony wants to come along, too?” Stark's smile turned lethally friendly.  
  
"Nah, I only work out when I have to. Or in between the sheets.” The last bit was accompanied by a purposeful glance at his partner. Steve coughed. “He's a riot, isn't he? A real... riot.” Bucky slapped the door frame once, grinned, and disappeared around the corner. Once they were alone, Steve turned to his glowering lover. “No need to be sour, I told you about Bucky, remember?”

Stark bared his teeth at him in what should probably have been a smile, but definitely was more of a grimace. “Yeah, about how you two grew up in Brooklyn, how he's driving in the Camping World Truck Series on what used to be your former team. But what you didn't tell me is that he's a freaking male model. How would he even know where we're at?” Steve's usual controlled facial expression turned unruly.  
  
“Maybe he reads all of your tweets.”  
The withering look Tony shot him caused his smirk to lessen a little.  
“And _you_ are tweeting the garage's code or what?”

“Tony, don't be silly.”  
Like being held at gunpoint, Stark raised both of his arms up and wiggled his hands mid-air.  
“Oh, pardon me, Judas, how could I. Now go ahead, your running partner awaits.”

“You're really...” Steve stopped himself short, shook his head, and turned around as Bucky stood in the doorway of the dressing room. “See you later.” Jaw set tight, Tony only nodded and busied himself looking for another tool. From the corner of his eye, he watched the two men break out into a jog.

* * *

On a bright morning at Phoenix International Raceway in Avondale, Clark was one of the first people on track. He had slept poorly for only three hours, always keeping an ear out for eventual footsteps at the door. There had been none; he had not seen Bruce since their fall-out three days earlier. Sighing, Clark put up a brave facade as two crew members fixed the last bits on his Ford and slipped on his helmet.

Before the visor shut for good, he caught a glimpse of a familiar, dark-clad figure arriving at the track on a motorbike. His right hand twitched in an awkward attempt of greeting, but he forced it down, seeing Bruce was too far away to spot it anyhow. Swallowing down the butterflies in his stomach, Kent vowed to initiate a clearing talk between them, right after both of their test runs would be done with, and got in behind the wheel.

Feeling not so lethargic anymore, Clark pressed the starter, to which the Ford roared to life. His performance on track was splendid for the first eight rounds until Clark felt something was not going according to plan. As he was about to zip through the turn, the Ford swerved violently. His tries to correct his loose turn remained futile, and he hit the outer wall just shy of 200 miles per hour.

In an instant, the back of the car picked up and spun around, until it was in mid-air.

A loud grinding sound was heard, then the Ford slammed hard into the wall. It shredded, twisted, and ripped apart around its driver; the heavy impact hurling dust, debris, and fence chunks 650 feet down the raceway. There was a momentary burst of flame when the Ford twisted and flipped onto its roof, to slither along the asphalt, until momentum caused it to spin at least ten times, sending pieces of metal everywhere.  
  
Beat up beyond all recognition, it eventually came to a standstill amidst the track. From where his team had watched the accident unfold, too shocked to actually comprehend what was going on, it did not take long until panicked voices began to shout "Fire!" In no time, flames were engulfing the whole driver's side, burning relentlessly through the metal, fueled by internal liquids.  
  
_“CLARK!”_  
  
Bruce's hoarse cry tore across the track as he leaped over the barriers and dashed over to where the wreck was going up in flames. Someone had to get a hold of Wayne's furiously thrashing body when he made a move for the burning wreck, again and again, until they were able to pull him back, into safety. Its driver still wasn't moving, as the flames licked only feet from where he hung inside the buckles.

Blood was oozing out from where the metal cut into his body and the steering wheel crushed into him.  
  
A cacophony of sirens and blue lights flashing started to wail across the racetrack soon after.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the scary crash that inspired this chapter here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GkEbdgrkFM


	25. Chapter 25

Sitting in the dark of his office, Bruce examined the slow-motion videotape over and over.  
  
The wall was interrupted by one of the track's two access gates that were supposed to be secured with six thick metal posts, but they had not been in place. The Ford had slammed into the exposed edge. "All that saved his life was that it went on the right side of the engine instead of the left side.“ At Lucius Fox' quiet voice, Bruce ever so slightly raised his head.   
  
He did not move further, however, and remained sitting in the same position; arms leaning on his thighs, remote control dangling from one hand, eyes glued to the screen. “Why didn't he press the switch? One click and he would've discharged chemicals into the driving component.” He spoke more to himself than to his visitor. Still, the crew chief moved closer until he stood next to Bruce and looked down at him.  
  
“The fire extinguisher switch wasn't working, Bruce.”

Bewildered, the Gothamite stared at his crew chief. “Why not?” In the twilight, Fox suddenly looked far beyond his true age. “Examined the wreck myself. Sabotage act. Someone has also meddled with the brake hose.” Lucius Fox' circumspect voice took two tries until it got through to the stone-faced figure of his employer. “We checked your car as well, Bruce, same thing. If you had been first as planned, then...”

Swallowing twice, Bruce Wayne said nothing. He did not move, long after Fox had taken his leave. Instead, he called Alfred, requested to get his hands on all security camera footage from the past two weeks, and locked the door behind him. After hours of research and meticulous studies, Bruce's feet carried him over to the SI pit box.

“You did this! You are responsible for the crash!”  
  
Completely taken aback, Tony got to his feet, shook his head, and spread his arms. “What the... - what the hell are you talking about?!” Bruce got livid once the tall form of Steve Rogers rose from his spot next to Tony. “Someone messed with Clark's car.” Shock was plastered all over Tony's expressive features. Rogers only pursed his lips. “What does that have to do with us? We don't have any business with your mechanics.”

An index finger jabbed into his direction. “Than why does your team manager show up on our surveillance camera tapes?” As he held up a small, silver USB stick, Steve started to shake his head. “He never said he would go down that route.” Wayne pocketed the device and zeroed in on the two men. “What the hell, Rogers...?” Feeling left out, Tony stared from one to the other. Eventually, he reached out for his lover.

“Steve, don't tell me you knew this.” His voice was low as Tony palmed his goatee, looking incredulous. Steve made a dismissive gesture and stemmed his arms to his sides. “I didn't know! There has been talking about... stuff, nothing more!” Bruce's chest heaved with deep intakes of breath. “And you bastard kept your fuckin mouth shut.” The tall blonde avoided the hate-filled stare of his nemesis and looked towards the exit.  
  
“I had no reason not to.”  
  
The heavy blow came out of nowhere and sent Steve Rogers reeling backward into a pile of tires. Bruce Wayne towered above him, his face twisted with ire and unabashed rage. “Pray to God that Clark survives the night. If not, I'll come and find you. To destroy your life the way you destroyed his.” Rogers wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “You know that's a fucking death threat, Wayne.”

He inspected his sleeve and frowned when it came away stained red. “See you in court, asshole.” Bruce's face turned vitriolic. “No. See you in hell, Rogers, one way or another. And that's a promise.” As soon as the Gothamite had turned on his heel and left the garage, Steve scrambled back to his feet. “Get out of my face.” Stark's eyes brimmed with disgust while his voice was piercing like a knife.

“Do it now, or I cannot guarantee for a fucking thing.” Steve stared at him with eyes full of hatred. “I don't have to listen to you, Tony. Not anymore. I quit. Consider this my resignation.” The shorter man breathed out audibly. “From everything then.” Tony's voice was taut, like his posture. “Because I can't be with a guy who picked the wrong side.” Steve raised his chin in a defiant manner. “Good luck in Miami. You'll need it.”

Later that day, when Steve had been picked up by no other than James Barnes in a convertible, James Rhodes found his best friend sitting on the steps inside the SI pit box, legs drawn close to his body, arms resting on bent knees. With attention to the oil stains on the concrete, he took a seat nearby. “Clint's going with Steve.” With a groan, Stark dropped his head upon his arms. “Who cares, Rhodey. At this point, I don't anymore.”

The spotter sighed. In a cautious move, he put his arm around the other man and offered silent comfort. “Pepper, Happy, Jarvis and I won't leave you.” Without raising his head, Tony's right hand reached out to grab for Rhodes' arm and held on tight. “You guys are the best.” Jim regarded the dark head of hair to his right. “What are you going to do now?”  
  
When Tony eventually lifted his head, something akin to defeat lay in his eyes.  
“What's responsible, first of all.”  
The phone call Tony Stark led with NASCAR's headquarters was brief.

It resulted in the direct suspension for him and the remaining SI Racing team.

 


	26. Chapter 26

Tony sat in the driver's seat of his Audi for the longest time, staring at nothing in particular. When the skies above started to get dark, he pushed the door open and strode into the hospital's main entrance. Walking along endless linoleum corridors, he eventually found Bruce in front of the ICU.  
  
“How is he?”  
  
Tony eyed the man next to him. In the harsh neon light, Wayne's face looked even paler and drawn than earlier on. “Critical injuries to head and spine, second-degree burns. They put him in a coma. Next 12 hours are crucial.” Scratching at a spot next to his earlobe, Stark blew out his cheeks into the silence. “If there's anything I can do, then...”

“You can't undo this. Nobody can undo this.” Bruce stood up and turned narrowed, pain-filled eyes down to where Tony sat. “But you can take down those responsible. Once and for all.” Tony sniffed and fixated a spot at the ceiling. “Fired Stane as of this morning. Believe me - if I'd known any about this, I _swear_ to God I would've...” Words failed him, and Stark stopped to gnaw on the corner of his bottom lip.  
  
An audible inhale from the Gothamite, nothing more.  
Bruce Wayne did not take his eyes off the person behind the glass front.  
“I'm going to finish this season, no matter what.”  
  
Upon the determination in his voice and stance, Tony held his tongue and simply nodded.

* * *

Homestead Miami Speedway, Florida, 17th  November 2013

  
Going through all the race preparations without Clark by his side felt odd. Bruce tried to keep his thoughts focused on the 267 laps that lay in front of him. It was the thirty-sixth and final race of the season, and the first one without any team members from SI Racing on track. He had learned of Tony Stark's actions via Alfred and Lucius, right after he had gotten a call from the hospital.

Kent's vitals had at least stabilized enough to give them hope for a timely recovery.  
  
“The whole team is standing behind you, Bruce. Safe race and good luck.”  
  
Said man said nothing and held up a thumb out of the safety window net. When it was green flag time, Bruce poured all of his underlying anger, helplessness and bottled up emotions into his car and onto the asphalt. Without the presence of his previously greatest contender, he delivered a splendid performance and was able to keep pole for 123 laps straight without bigger difficulty.

The final twenty laps were starting to show some wear and tear on several racing teams. Lucius Fox had calculated with an early pit stop, and Bruce had been keeping his foot on the pedal ever after. Their spotter eventually felt the need to inquire in lap 260. “What do you think on fuel?” Bruce pressed two switches on his dashboard. “I dunno. Let's gamble.” Gordon was quick to confirm his strategy. “10-4. Stay out.”

Ears ringing with the high-powered pitch of the engine, Bruce narrowed his eyes and pressed his foot down even harder. Pictures of Clark and him flooded his mind; from when they had been racing together for the first time, back at the Gotham Speedway. Of them getting a first glance at the newly delivered Ford Eco Boost cars when it was clear they were going into the Sprint Cup for real.  
  
“Hell yeah, Bruce, P1!”  
  
Jim Gordon was ecstatic over the comm.  
Coming out of autopilot mode, Bruce blinked. And smirked.  
“This one's for Clark.”  
  
Applause over the radio resounded in his ear. Then the announcer's voice boomed all over the track. _“Winner of the_ _NASCAR 2013 Sprint Cup Series is Bruce Wayne! It is his first victory after joining the series this year. Congratulations to the whole team from Wayne Enterprises Racing!”_

* * *

“Congratulations.”  
Clark's voice sounded feeble from underneath the intubation apparatus in his nose. Bruce took a seat.  
“Thanks.”

For a few moments, neither of them said anything, and the beeps and blips of the machines echoed through the room. Eventually, Kent cleared his throat. “I haven't been able to watch.” His eyes flew over to the dark flat screen TV on the wall. Bruce leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “Nothing to write home about. The race itself I mean. Lucius and Alfred are taking care of the rest.”  
  
Clark nodded as much as his spinal brace allowed him to. His eyes searched for Bruce's. “I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have acted the way I did. In Texas.” Wayne squirmed a little on the wooden chair. “You've got nothing to apologize for, Clark.” A careful shake of a head. “Here's where you're wrong, Bruce. Also for... what I'm about to say.” The frown on Wayne's face deepened. Kent stifled a cough and swallowed.

“I've had a lot of time to think these days. About you and me. I have been thinking about us for a while, actually. And I feel like”, Clark paused to gather enough strength to speak on. “I feel like we're at a point where we both want different things in life.” Incredulous hazel eyes stared at him. “Are you breaking up with me? After everything? Don't you care about...” Wayne snapped his mouth shut as his defense barriers slammed up.

Clark blinked three times in a row. “You? For me, it's always been about you, Bruce Wayne. And now you have the nerve to accuse me of not caring?” The Gothamite lowered his gaze to fixate a spot on the sheet next to Clark's arm, the one with the needle stuck in the back of his hand. “But I... love you, Clark.” The way he said it with a frown, angrily pressed out between clenched teeth, caused Kent to give a sad smile.  
  
“Maybe you think you do, Bruce, but... not at all costs. No, I am not your true love. I'll... never be.” Before Wayne was able to protest and steel himself against the following words, Clark concluded. “NASCAR is the one that will always come first for you, no matter what.” He swallowed in pain. “And that is okay with me, now – it... it doesn't make it easy, but I-... I finally understood.”

When Bruce stumbled out of the hospital, still in a trance-like state, it was way past 11 pm. Standing outside, in the shadows of the parking lot, were Tony Stark and his Audi R8. When the other man wordlessly opened the passenger door with an apprehensive look on his face, Bruce got in without meeting his gaze. They rode in silence until Tony stopped at the Tobacco Bar in Miami twenty minutes later.

 


	27. Chapter 27

Miami, 18th  November 2013

  
“Don't ask. Drink.”  
  
Bruce eyed the glass and the bottle that were placed in front of him with suspicion. Tony then raised his own tumbler. “Best way to get over a breakup.” The hard liquor burned down Wayne's throat, but he finished up in one go. In no time he had a refill, but he simply looked at it for a couple of heartbeats. “Speaking from experience?” The ice cubes in Tony's glass clinked softly as he filled his second glass in no time.  
  
“I guess so, after things with Steve turned south for good. Got a lot of experience on that by now, if you will.” Tony tipped his head back to down his second shot. “He's with his old gang now, probably going back to driving in the CWTS.” Bruce watched him without interrupting.“Prolly gone back to fuckin his precious Brooklyn boy, too.” Then Tony snorted with a mirthless laugh. “Damn the memories, I'm a free man now.” He paused.

“Damn it all to hell.”

By the time the bottle of single malt was empty, it was way past midnight, and both of them way too drunk. Tony seemed to be slightly less intoxicated than Bruce, but still had trouble walking straight out of the bar. Once the cool air outside hit them, he stumbled against the Gothamite's chest, nearly knocking him over. “No more drivin.” Wayne wiped a palm over his face and blinked owlishly up and down the fairly empty street.  
  
“We gonna have'ta catch a cab.”   
  
With a heavy sigh, Tony sagged against him. “M so tired, Bruce.” His dead weight made it hard to keep both of them upright. Wayne all but faltered and steadied himself against the nearby parking meter. “N't yet, c'mon. You can sleep in'the cab.” Stark shook his head, dizzying himself, and squinted. “No, I'm so tired of holdin back.” With these words, Tony grabbed the collar of his polo shirt and pulled him into a sloppy kiss.

At first, Bruce tried to ward him off, grunting against Tony's lips. The latter drew back just enough to be able to look at him from close up. “Been thinkin bout this for months.” The Gothamite tried to blink away his inebriation but did not succeed. He forced a wave of nausea down and stared at Tony. “Symp'thy fuck?” Stark's face fell at the wording, but he nodded, carefully. “'d be okay with whatev'r.”   
  
Bruce mimicked his nod and pointed across the street. They ended up stumbling into a tacky motel that lay within walking distance from the bar and got themselves a small room with patchwork quilts and plastic plants. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Tony sprung into action. Clawing his hands into the front of Bruce's shirt, he pushed him back onto the bed.  
  
Wayne's fingers began to run through his hair, tentative at first, then bolder, as Tony was draped all over his body, lips going from Bruce's mouth over to his neck. The taste of spicy aftershave mixed with sweat and musk was on his tongue as he ran it all the way down Bruce's throat. “You taste so fuckin good, just like I thought you would. Better even.” His husky murmurs caused the other man to make a deep, guttural sound.

Bruce's hands wandered down to the small of Tony's back, to cup his rear and give it a firm squeeze. “Pants off. Been teasin me in those tight fire suits for the longest time.” At the commanding tone, Tony chuckled against his pale, warm skin. “Been checkin out m'ass there, Wayne?” He hissed when strong fingers slipped past the waistband of his jeans and felt him through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs.

Out of instinct, Tony ground his pelvis into Bruce's and moaned at the palpable state of arousal there. “Shit, d'you wanna get us off like teenagers in our pants?” In the dim light of the nightstand lamp, the Gothamite grinned up at him; still unmistakably drunk, but also exuding an air of lasciviousness. Having never seen it before, it turned Tony on even more. “Who cares... 'm too wasted t'fuck you prop'ly.”  
  
Stark instantly sobered up and pulled back to squint at him.   
  
“Who said ya'd get t'fuck me?” It was meant to be teasing but prompted Bruce to play out his strength and roll them around, switching places. Swaying a little upon straddling Tony's hips, he then narrowed his eyes at him in concentration. “If one of us s'gonna take it up t'ass, s' not me.” Tony's grin turned ugly in less than two seconds. “Ah, so that's where y'comin from? 'fraid I'm gonna call you out on bein' a bottom boy or what?”  
  
“Oh, blow me!”  
Even as Wayne started to scramble off, Tony's unsteady hands groped blindly for his crotch.  
“Gladly.”

The smacking sound of Wayne slapping his hand away resounded through the room. “Forget it. F'rget all of this. This 's bullshit.” In less than five minutes, the mood went from unresolved sexual tension over to pent-up aggression, followed by alcohol-ridden gloom. Bruce curled himself up on his side, away from Tony. After a few moments of silenced breathing, Stark eventually put tender fingers upon the Gothamite's shoulder.  
  
“M'sorry, kay? Pl's look a' me. Br'ce.”  
He hiccuped and scooted closer. While Wayne made no move to comply, he did not shake him off either.  
“M not cap'ble t'love he said. N't real love.”  
  
The words were muffled, spoken into the pillow or the crook of Bruce's arm. Tony perked up. “Who sai... oh.” He mulled over the statement only briefly. “I don' think tha's true. T'was a shitty thing t'say.” Wayne's voice took on an uncommon, desperate tone. “He's right. N'vr could. I n'vr made n effort.” Tentative at first, Tony's fingers began to caress the thick brown hair.  
  
When he did not get pushed away, Stark snuggled up and wrapped an arm around the taller man's body. "None o'this 's your fault, 'kay? Don' worry... don't. 's gonna be 'lright." He continued to mumble incoherent and drunk soothing nothings, until he felt and heard Bruce's breathing evening out and giving way to light snoring. It was then that Tony also closed his burning eyes and tried to ignore the ground swaying under him.  
  
They fell asleep fully dressed, with Tony spooning from behind. It was also Tony Stark who went to rub Bruce Wayne's back when he heaved out his guts over the toilet two hours later; helping him to rinse his mouth afterward, and tucking him back into bed to get some more sleep.

Only loud banging on the door around noon woke both men and their mutual hangovers. Seeing they had to check out on the spot, a frazzled Tony piled an even more frazzled Bruce into his car and drove off towards Miami beach. There, at a secluded spot of a not yet populated beach club, they crashed upon two cozy recliners and dozed off for another couple of hours.

When Tony opened his eyes, his gaze fell upon the serene face in front of him, causing him to still his motions. For once, Wayne's countenance did not hold the tiniest hint of frustration marring his strong features; he looked deeply peaceful and much younger than Tony had ever gotten to witness on him. A ball of feelings churned inside his stomach, but Stark figured it was due to his raging hangover.  
  
_'I could love you.'_  
The thought was not as frightening and illogical as Tony feared it would be.  
_'But could you ever love me?'_

 


	28. Chapter 28

Miami, 19th November 2013  
  
  
After a 15 minute drive, a red R8 pulled up outside Miami's International Airport with a distinctive roar. From where Pennyworth had sat in the executive lounge, busy answering emails, he stood up and went outside. Next to the commercial airport, the General Aviation Center was located on the same grounds. It served private jets with its own hangar, refueling services, customs, and ground services.

The elder man watched his protege step out of the passenger's seat of the roadster with its license plate reading 'Stark16'. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses Alfred did not recognize as his. "Master Bruce." Said man shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and briefly pinched his lips. "Alfred." It was then that Tony Stark also pushed his door open and put an elbow on the roof of his Audi.

The corners of Pennyworth's mouth turned south.  
  
"Missed out on boarding, Mister Stark?" Said billionaire responded with a cocky shrug-and-smirk combo, and blew up a bubble with his pinkish chewing gum. "Nah – the perks of having your own plane. Or six. One's always gonna wait for me." Tony's attention switched over to where Bruce stood, looking all awkward and sullen. He pointed at the Gothamite's shades, softening his smirk into a more tender smile.

“Keep the Matsudas, they look nice on you.” Tipping two fingers against his temple in a casual salute, Tony then ducked back into his roadster and revved its engine. As he left dust on the tarmac speeding away, Bruce stared after him, lost in thought. His mentor and confidant quietly moved over to stand next to him, hands clasped on his back. “You choosing him by your side is something, I confess, I did not see coming.”  
  
Bruce's lips thinned out for a second.

“Do I detect a touch of reproach in your voice, Alfred?” “Well, Sir, I would be a fool to condone this, after everything that has happened.” Wayne turned to cast him a sideways glance. Alfred could not see his eyes move behind the shades. “What happened was not Tony's fault in particular.” Pennyworth inclined his head, if only for an inch. “And yet you have to have the responsibility to take SI Racing to court.”  
  
Two arms came up to protect a broad chest.  
“Says who?”  
It came out far more ornery than he had wanted it to, but Alfred overlooked his bout of petulance.

“It is safe to assume Gordon and Fox expect you to, Sir. Otherwise...”

 

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise they most likely are going to hand in their resignations.”

For a few heartbeats, Bruce Wayne said nothing. His jaw worked, long before he reached up and pulled the shades off his nose with slow movements. Looking at the expensive item, he folded its temples with care and slipped it into the breast pocket of his rumpled button-down shirt. “And what about you, Alfred? Are you resigning too if I don't? Give up on me after all?”

“No, Master Bruce. But Master Kent deserves justice for what has happened.”  
A gust of wind whipped over Bruce's head, blowing unkempt bangs into his face.  
“And me? Am I the driver WE Racing deserves, but not the one it needs?”

When the elder man did not have a direct answer, Bruce dipped his chin low and stared at the ground “Those responsible will burn for what they've done, Alfred, but it doesn't mean I have to as well.” Glum and weary, Bruce Wayne then turned around and headed for the terminal with its private shower area.

* * *

_***  
'NASCAR slams SI Racing's team manager Stane for committed sabotage'_

_After the severe accident of WE Racing's driver Clark Kent last week, the sanctioning has issued for the highest level of penalty, P6, to hit SI Racing. It includes a 150-point deduction along with a fine of $200,000 and a suspension to the team's crew chief._  
  
_According to WE Racing, further investigations against Stane are underway. WE Racing has also reported to the police for prosecution and is supposedly suing the former team manager for reckless endangerment. Kent, who survived the accident but is bound to the wheelchair for some time, has stated via his lawyers that he does not plan on returning to NASCAR, and simultaneously WE Racing._  
  
_The timely and voluntary disclosure of SI Racing's wrongdoing and the willingness of Anthony Stark to cooperate with the government's investigation may be relevant factors in how the race team will get out of this with a black eye in the long run._  
  
_Upon Stark Industries' cooperation, the prosecutor considered the corporation's willingness to identify the culprits within the corporation, including senior executives, to make witnesses available, to disclose the complete results of its internal investigation..._  
***  
  
The trial took place in New York, seeing Stark Industries had exclusive jurisdiction for the company's headquarters. It became a ten-days media hassle, involving many huge black limousines with tinted windows, and stone-faced witnesses; among them Tony Stark himself, as well as Obadiah Stane. Several former SI mechanics were heard, as well as Lucius Fox, Alfred Pennyworth, Jim Gordon and Bruce Wayne.

Hearings for WE Racing were taking place at different times, therefore all plaintiffs saw fleeting glimpses of each other in dark suits getting in and out of cars or in online paparazzi pictures. Two days after Thanksgiving, Stane was sentenced to two years on probation and a five-figure fine.

Without a final glance at or word with his former confidant, Tony left the court with his head held high, surrounded by an armada of lawyers and bodyguards, to head for a heliport outside of Manhattan.

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some M/M interaction, albeit not too graphic

It had started raining when Tony first set a foot upon the airfield of East Hampton Airport. Thanks to his chauffeur, he had arrived fairly dry at his family's cottage on Ocean Avenue. By now, it was pitch dark outside, matching his mood, and he had discovered the joys of solitude drinking. On his third shot of whiskey, Tony meandered through the darkened apartment on socked feet, sipping from the tumbler in his hand.  
  
It was barely 11 pm, and he debated whether or not to head out for a night on the town, preferably at the SL East, less than three miles away. Walking over to the window to look at the weather, he frowned at the sight. Outside in front of his lawn was a dark figure sitting on a motorbike in the pouring rain. Tony's face twisted in confusion just as his heart started beating faster.  
  
Quick to put his glass aside, he slipped into a pair of sneakers and headed outside, no coat or umbrella whatsoever. And confirmed his suspicions. “Geez, Bruce, what the fuck? Couldn't you have, like, called or something?” The Gothamite sat, unmoving and unmindful of getting soaked, balancing his helmet in front of him. A half-smile attempted to worm past his stoic facade. “Which number?”

Stupefied, Tony snapped his mouth shut and hunched up his shoulders against the cold, pelting rain. “How long have you been sitting here? Crazy bastard, gonna get sick... come on, now – come on in.” His persistent hands clawing at Bruce's upper arm eventually did the trick, and he managed to usher, push and pull the taller man inside. Leaving huge puddles where he stood, Wayne kept his head low as he put the helmet aside.

A frown appeared from underneath wet, sodden bangs. “I shouldn't be here.” Tsking, Stark locked the front door again and stepped up to him. Bruce smelled of air and rainfall. “But you are, and now we're getting you all warmed up.” He grabbed hold of a cold hand and dragged the other man upstairs into the master bathroom. The thick leather jacket Bruce wore was completely soaked, just like everything underneath.

Tony did not pay attention to the dark splotches pooling on expensive carpeting and started undressing his quiet charge. “You lost 150 points and your crew chief.” Wayne's voice sounded detached. He stood and let Tony tug and tear at the buttons of his sodden jeans. “Jarvis is going to be okay. And I give a rat's ass about those points, okay?” With a final move, Tony pulled down his pants and urged Bruce on to shed his shoes.

“And that's totally nothing worth going on a three-hour drive at night on a motorbike for. Sheesh.”

“Two hours. I'm used to long rides, remember?”

“Crazy fucker, in this weather! And not on a bike.”

“Getting the address right was harder than getting here.”

“Reminds me of which – how the fuck...?”  
Bruce's grin was tired but smug.  
“Your chopper pilot didn't want to give me your phone number.”

“He shouldn't have given you my address as well then.”

“Oh, he didn't. Voluntarily I mean.”

“... you little shit.”

The stream of water stayed tepid at first, seeing the Gothamite's skin instantly reddened from the severe change in temperature. Tony then gradually increased the warmth, until steam billowed up into the air, fogging up the glass panels of the large, luxury shower cabin. He watched Bruce's tension practically melt away under the hot torrent of water, and forced his own libido down.  
  
Wayne blinked his eyes open and sized him up through dark, wet lashes. Tony swallowed and made a move to squeeze the liquid soap dispenser to his right. “Can I...” He glimpsed up at Bruce's dripping mop of hair. Wayne moved closer and backed him into a corner, bracing himself left and right of Stark's body. Wordless, he lowered his head and Tony's strong fingers set to work, massaging his scalp and lathering minty shampoo in.

His hands soon got a life of their own, however, and it was then that Bruce began to respond to and mimic his ministrations. They caressed and stroked, wrestled and grappled with each other underneath the rain forest shower head, interchanging the dominant role ever so often. Tony then turned off the water, and they got out and toweled themselves dry. Scratching his stubble-covered chin, Stark eyed his visitor.

“Are you staying the night?” Hair sticking up in all directions, Bruce looked a bit like a schoolboy in summer camp. “Looks like my clothes take a while to dry out.” From where he stood and admired the chiseled muscles in Wayne's back, Tony gave a soft purr. “You don't need any for tonight.”

Sharing a bed seemed odd, despite their previous intimacy. With most of their arousal still very much prominent, Tony spooned up from behind, letting Bruce feel his want. His wandering hand soon found an equally hard erection to busy himself with. “Go on and fuck me. Make me take it. Make it hurt. Do it.” Tony's hand on his cock stilled and drew away. A disbelieving frown marred his features.

“This is no flagellation party here, what the heck?”  
  
As he tried to tilt his chin, Tony was met with more than a little resistance. “Look at me. Bruce.” Two distraught, forlorn hazel eyes stared back at him. Tony inched closer until their foreheads touched. “If anything, I am going to make love to you. And only if... that's what you want. Tonight.” When the younger man drew back, nodded, and wanted to turn around onto his stomach, Stark haltered his motions.  
  
He reached out to cup Wayne's cheek within his palm and leaned in for a sensual kiss. “But I want to look into your eyes while I'm doing it.” To the sound of the pulsing rain outside, Tony slid over the other man's naked body and acted out on his promise. It started with soft, nuzzling kisses all over Bruce's lips, ears and throat until fingertips caressed taut skin and Tony's tongue traced a wet trail down to Bruce's bellybutton.

Not a single word had escaped Wayne's lips so far, but his ribcage rose and fell with labored breaths. Stark glimpsed upwards and saw two hazel eyes watching his every move; hesitant and wondering at the same time. “Let me hear you.” His voice was a gust of warm breath against Bruce's skin, sending instant shivers across it. Tony dipped his head lower, fingers raking over strong, muscular thighs.

“Let me hear if you like what I do.”  
  
When he took him into his mouth, Wayne moaned out obscenely loud for the very first time. It caused Tony's own cock to throb against the soft sheets as he half laid, half knelt between Bruce's splayed legs and began to suck and lick and nibble. He refrained from garnering more friction to himself, however, and focused back on the warm, musky sensation between his lips. “S...-stop...” Bruce's voice was a husky, strangled whisper.

To go with it, one of his hands reached down and pushed at the crown of Tony's hair. The latter obediently took his mouth away, albeit more than perplexed, and regarded the flushed and near breathless countenance above. “Not good?” A tight smirk. “Too good.” Long, elegant fingers then combed through his hair. “I... want – all of you.” Biting his bottom lip in anticipation, Tony reached out for the lube and the pack of condoms.

His slick fingers probed only briefly, then Tony replaced them with his length. And almost gasped from the feel. “God, Bruce...” When nothing followed and the Gothamite's eyes remained squeezed tightly shut, Tony stilled instantly. “I don't want to hurt you, let me know if I...” His squirms eventually led Bruce to open his eyes, dark with lust, as he reached up with one palm at the back of his head to pull him close.

“Move.”  
  
His voice was strained and breathy. As if on cue, Bruce tilted his pelvis, and Tony groaned out in pleasure before he began to set up a rhythm. At the most intimate contact, he and gripped the sheets left and right of Bruce's head with force. When he blinked his eyes open despite the overflow of ecstasy, Tony focused on the enrapturing image that was the man underneath him.

His Adam's apple stood out as Wayne had his head tilted back; mouth slack to moan out unintelligible bits and pieces. “Like this... fuck, yes...” His cock was hot and rock hard against Tony's stomach, making him itch for a touch. Bruce's hands and feet dug deep into his back, drawing him close. “I'm close, babe, I...” Tony's voice was breathless and heady as he continued to thrust into him. “Look at me, Bruce.”

It took a great effort for Wayne to open his eyes. When he succeeded, they were clouded with passion. “Come for me.” Those three words pushed Tony over the edge, fingers clenching into the mattress. Bruce held him in place until the spasms that wormed through his body had subsided. No sooner than Stark raised his forehead off his stomach, his hands searched and found Wayne's erection.

Still connected in the most intimate way, it took Tony less than a minute to get him off with a few strokes. A few sloppy kisses shared in the semi-light of the lamp on the nightstand, then Tony disposed of the condom, did a superficial wipe to Bruce's chest with some tissues, and snuggled up close to the warm, mellowed-out body.

* * *

Back at his apartment, Bruce spent the upcoming afternoon brooding on the couch. Around 5 pm, his mobile blipped. When he moved to look, an unknown number had sent him a screenshot of his nomination for the Rookie of the Year Award with a text that instantly gave its sender away. _'Now you got my number. Figured it was the least I could do after you left without wanting breakfast.'_  
  
Even before Wayne found a suitable answer for the audacity Tony had, his phone blinked a third time. Bruce frowned at a picture of an event location with empty seats. Underneath the picture, a caption read: _'_ _Btw,_ _I_ _still_ _need a plus one_ _for the shebang in two days_ _.'_ He had even added a kissing emoji, causing Bruce to snort while his cheeks nevertheless felt flushed.  
  
_'I'll pick you up at 3 pm.'_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N/B: NASCAR's penalty system has been revamped in 2014, but I still used the highest level (P6) in this one. It might even be too soft for what Stane has done, in terms of sabotage, but since Tony also had to let go of Jarvis (AoU moment, anyone?!), I figured I've done enough harm to SI Racing..


	30. Chapter 30

Las Vegas, December 6th  2013  
  
  
NASCAR's Sprint Cup Series Awards was the one post-season black-tie event none of the teams dared to miss out upon. Held at Wynn Las Vegas, the banquet was honoring the season's champion driver and owner, as well as the top-10 drivers in the final standings. Red carpet began a little before 4 pm. As usual, the teams got chauffeured in big black limousines, sponsored by brands like Mercedes Benz, Lexus, and many more.

Loud pop music accompanied the arriving guests while pictures were taken and interviews were given.

Team WE Racing in form of Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, and Jim Gordon had already passed the walk of fame, as well as the area of journalists, and stood in their respective tuxedos in the doorway of the Wynn. The Commissioner glimpsed over to where employees from team SI Racing walked into their direction, took off his glasses to wipe them on his jacket, and shuffled on the spot. “Where is Bruce?”  
  
Fox checked his watch and cocked his head. “Not like him to be late.” Alfred politely stepped aside to let a tall, red-haired woman in an elegant dress pass them by. She had her phone pressed to an ear, holding a finger to her other side to block the noise and music. At his gallantry, she looked up, pleasantly surprised, and nodded in gratitude. Pennyworth caught bits of her conversation.

“... where? I can hardly hear... hello? The banquet's starting in... yes! All of us are here. Hurry up!” She ended the call and pocketed her phone inside her clutch, but remained standing by the door, glancing around with searching eyes. After two minutes, a man who turned out to be SI's spotter joined her, and Alfred got an idea of who she was. “He still ain't here?” The woman shook her head.

“Two more minutes - from what I understood. Go in and have a seat, Jim, I'll wait here.”  
  
Her companion threw the three men from WE Racing a gauging look and leaned in closer. “That's what I wanted to tell you... apparently we've been moved, you and me.” For a split second, Pepper Potts stared at James Rhodes in complete bafflement. “What do you mean – moved? We're sitting front row, left stage, just like the past years.” James tugged at his shirt to expose his cufflinks. His voice lowered several octaves.  
  
“The team's table is the same as always, just – us... we're on stage... together with...”

Loud revving of an engine interrupted them. Pepper, Rhodey, and team WE Racing looked over to where the photographers and journalists broke into an immensely vocal riot. A motorbike had just arrived right on the red carpet, stopping with an artistic move that lifted the back wheel into the air for a brief moment. Two dark-clad figures slipped off the machine with ease soon after, before the driver secured his bike.

“I never rode this thing with a tux on.”  
Bruce's removed his helmet and Tony followed suit, throwing up a victory sign at the gawking crowd.  
“First time for everything. How's my hair?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”  
With an affectionate snarl, Tony reached over to run his fingers through Wayne's matted hair.  
“If it looks as bad as yours, then no.”

Without waiting for an answer, Stark then hunkered down to be able to peek into one of the Honda's mirrors. As he stood, examining and adjusting his meticulously styled dark locks, Bruce adjusted his jacket and inspected their surroundings. He nodded at his perplexed team colleagues and gestured for them to go ahead and get seated. Then something else caught his attention. “Don't turn around now.”

At Bruce's hushed voice, Tony instantly jerked his head around. “Don't tell me to don't... oh.” At the sight of Steve Rogers in a tux, wearing a well-groomed beard, Tony all but faltered on the steps. Next to his ex, a brown-haired man fell into lockstep with him. He was clean-shaven and wore his hair neatly cut, compared to the last time Tony saw him. Stark took a deep breath and forced out a fake smile.

“Well. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”  
  
Bruce unobtrusively studied the group of five who had not yet spotted them from afar. “Who are the others?” Tony risked another glimpse without getting caught. “The Howling Commandos, most likely.” “From the Camping World Truck Series roster?” “Think so, yeah. Peggy Carter Racing.” Tony's voice sounded too constricted all of a sudden, so Bruce put a hand in the small of his back. “Come on, let's go inside.”  
  
In a firm, but gentle move, Wayne then steered him into the grand foyer.

Tony's two colleagues still stood frozen to the spot, looking from Wayne to Stark. Tony was quick to recover from his initial shock. “Hiya guys. Pep, darl, you look gorgeous.” He then made a vague gesture into the round, from Bruce to his friends and back. “You know this guy already – he looks even better in real life, doesn't he? Bboy, say hello to my assistant Pepper and my bestie Rhodey.”

Taciturn as always, Wayne inclined his head and held out his hand into Pepper's direction. She took it, albeit hesitant, and gave a sparse smile which he returned. Rhodes seemed a little less willing to the formal introduction and only graced the Gothamite with a curt nod. Tony took in a huge breath and opened his mouth when a familiar blonde silhouette loomed up from behind.

Rogers and Barnes passed by in lockstep and without a word, but the glaring daggers Steve shot at his former lover and his new companion spoke volumes. In a non-verbal, subliminal response, Bruce Wayne straightened up to his full height, squared his shoulders, and made sure to shield Tony with his body, until Rogers and his crew were out of sight. It was then that Rhodes' countenance changed; in favor of Wayne. "I guess that's that."  
  
Tony smirk-shrugged, hurt behind his eyes. “Yup. What's done is done." Pepper, being the voice of reason, listened to the announcement over the speakers and ushered the three men onward to get seated. From where Tony and Bruce marched in front of them, Stark turned around mid-stride to look at his friends one more time. "Been wanting to tell you - there's been a minor change of plans in the seating arrangements."

* * *

Inside the ballroom, Bruce's matte black Ford Fusion sat enthroned on the left side of the stage. Close to the podium, a huge counter-like table was decorated for eight people. Wayne, as Sprint Cup winner, was seated at the front. Next to him, the seat where Clark Kent would have been was occupied by Tony. Next to Stark, Potts and Rhodes sat, trying to look less uncomfortable with the unforeseen attention.  
  
Comedian and radio host Jay Mohr had the crowd of 2000 people in stitches at his resume of the past season; not failing to comment on the peculiar constellation that sat to his left. “Look at that whole crew over there - joined in mutual stupefaction of 'How the hell did this happen?'” Jay Mohr waited for the laughter from the audience to subside before he added with a knowing smirk.  
  
“You know, this truly looks like the richest table at medieval times ever.”  
The room was cackling, and even Bruce Wayne cracked the ghost of a smile.  
Their host took it as an invitation to round up his opening monologue.

“So let's get to the man of the hour – Bruce Wayne, ladies and gentlemen! Give it up for the man who makes Steven Seagal look like a versatile, emotional actor. Nothing ever gets to this guy - except for when he gets wrecked. Then he goes absolutely ballistic. Sorry to tell you, buddy... looks like you clearly got the wrong profession right there. Nothing Zen about NASCAR.” Laughter rippled through the room.

Jay Mohr then walked over to stand in front of the table and grinned at the dark blazing eyes of Wayne, and the people around him who were trying hard not to laugh at their boss getting roasted. "Seriously, Bruce, back at Charlotte in May - I believe that was like 35 f-bombs in less than four minutes. Good Lord. That's an even better ratio than your average time spent in the pit box." Laughter once more roared through the hall.  
  
Tony had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek as Bruce cast him a brief but rotten stare. "What? He's not wrong." After several more rounds of verbal fire, which Bruce took in an ever-present, stoic stride, the host eventually left the stage to the drivers. The first two courses of the five-course menu were served, and after hearing speeches from all teams in ascending order, it was time for Tony to claim the podium.  
  
“First of all, I -again- want to congratulate Mister Wayne here, Bruce, and his whole team. What you guys have accomplished this year is truly amazing. So yeah – congratulations. It kinda put the whole NASCAR racing scene into a new perspective for me, and I'd like to share it with all of you.” Gripping the edges of the podium tight, Tony cleared his throat.  
  
“This year's brought a lot of changes to SI Racing – some for better, some for worse.” He paused to glance across the room. “In any case, I've realized two things: One, wanting success at all costs never ends well, and second: There's something very true about the old saying 'Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.'” Polite chuckles and coughs from the crowd; somewhere on the side cameras clicked.  
  
Tony then wet his lips and made a confidential move to lean closer to the mic. “So, to start the upcoming season on fresh tires – quite literally – it's safe to say things are going to change. Massively. Thanks to one man.” He straightened up behind the podium and adjusted his amber-tinted glasses with a meaningful look.  
  
“It might be a bit too early to tell you about a racing team fusion of SI and Wayne Enterprises Racing because I still have to ask my favorite enemy-turned-partner, Bruce Wayne himself, on his opinion.” An audible murmur ran through the crowd, and people craned their heads to look at the man in question. Wayne did not move a single muscle, except for the slightest twitch of his left eyebrow.

Tony ran two fingers along his goatee and nodded with a mock-painful expression. “I know I'm playing with fire here because he didn't win Rookie of the Year due to his temper - and I know how much he _hates_ surprises. It's so nerve-racking, to say the least. A bit as if I'd asked him to marry me, y'know?” Some gasped, a lot of invitees laughed. Bruce's face began to heat up as Tony winked over at him.  
  
“Ah, but don't look so shocked there, B – hold yer horses. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that jazz.”  
  
Somewhere in the back, the small delegation around Steve Rogers stood up, almost in unison, and left the dark ballroom. When he had plopped back onto his chair, Tony took his tinted glasses off to run thumb and middle finger over his eyes. Once the music set in, and the show's host occupied the stage again, he focused on the poker-faced man by his side. “Well? How'd I do?”

The Gothamite's face did not betray him; the hissed out words to his right, however, told a different story. “You can’t do something like that and not tell me beforehand!” Tony's expressive brown eyes sparkled. Trying to act all casual, Bruce leaned forward to take a sip of water and ignored Alfred's inquiring stare. "Aww, Brucie - lighten up, you little mope. With me, it's all very secret - much surprise. Better get used to it.”

From the corner of his mouth, Bruce all but growled at his companion.  
“Grow the fuck up, Stark.”  
His snarl still lessened as soon as he felt Tony's tender clasp for his hand underneath the table.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some quotes taken from (or inspired by) the real Jay Mohr who actually did host the NASCAR Sprint Cup Awards back in 2013.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viva Las Vegas!

They stole away from the banquet no sooner than the official part was over.  
  
Holding hands, Bruce dragged his snickering companion along the accurately mowed lawns of the hotel's front yard, before they jumped over the small fence and headed for the motorbike waiting on Las Vegas Boulevard. Wayne carefully craned his head to look at his passenger. “Any particular wishes for the rest of the night?” Stark shook his head no and grabbed his pecs tight from behind. “Surprise me.”  
  
A nod, then the visor snapped shut and the Fireblade ignited; loud enough for pedestrians to look over.  
“My turn then.”  
Like a medieval cavalry knight, Tony pointed his outstretched arm ahead like a lance and laughed.  
  
“Onwards and upwards!”  
  
The Strip in Vegas flew past them in a pompous mishmash of colorful flashes, reflective surfaces, and blinking lights or laser bream shows cascading through the night skies. Bruce felt Tony fastening his hold around his waist, fingers caressing through the thin fabric of the dress shirt under his tuxedo. After a good ten minutes, the Honda downshifted with an angry roar and veered to the right, onto a little parking lot.  
  
There, its driver put his feet on the ground and reached up to slip his helmet off. Confused, Tony pushed his visor up and frowned when Bruce looked at him over his shoulder. “Why are we stopping here?” Wayne's grin was nearly twice as big as his usual, sparse smile. “Isn't that kinda obvious?” Both looked up at the white little chapel in front. In no time, Stark had pulled off his helmet as well.  
  
“Ha. Haha. Nuh-uh. No. No way. Are you drunk?” Bruce cocked his head. “I'm driving, silly, so no. And that's your final answer?” Tony all but stumbled as he made a move to get off of the Honda.  “Are you fuckin' pulling my leg here, Wayne? What is this?” The Gothamite swung an elegant leg over his bike and secured the machine via kickstand.  
  
“Another thing I've never done in a tux. Besides, this _is_ still Vegas. What more could you want?” Tony's glance went from Bruce's smug countenance over to the Viva Las Vegas chapel and back. “... that's not funny, okay? Go fuck yourself.” It was nothing but a low, dangerous snarl. Bruce Wayne shoved the matte black helmet into the crook of his arm and ran his free hand through matted hair. “Not the answer I expected.”

For once failing at a witty comeback, Tony started tearing at his own dark strands until they stood up in all directions, giving him a wild, manic appearance. He pointed an accusing finger at Bruce. “You're... oh my... you're fuckin serious!? You are... oh, Jesus. Oh, holy fucking shit!” An amused Bruce Wayne just curled his mouth into a lopsided smirk. “And you sure are swearing a lot.”  
  
Downright scandalized, Tony started to pace in front of him and the Honda. “Cause you, you... just f...reakin _proposed_ to me in front of a go..shda..rn Vegas chapel, for f.. heaven's sake!” A slight shift of barely detectable emotions took place on the Gothamite's angular face. “So back at the banquet – that was all just empty talk?” Blinking against a cloud of confusion, Tony hastened to shake his head. “No, but...”  
  
With a nod, Bruce squinted off into the distance. “Either it works, or it doesn't. At least you're now left with a less unpleasant proposal memory than your first.” For several heartbeats, Tony Stark just regarded him with a half-opened mouth. When he snapped it shut, he swallowed hard two times.

“I'm a selfish bastard who hogs the blankets at night, holds grudges for far too long, and who drinks too much when he's unable to cope with the shit in his life. I'm a... a rich fuckhead who knows how everything works, except people. I can never remember deadlines, and usually care shit for others.” After listening with an emotionless expression, Wayne nodded at him; once, and dead-serious.  
  
“Okay.”  
Bewildered, Tony frowned and stared at him, mouth even more agape than before.  
“Wha... okay? Okay?! How can that be okay?”  
  
“I could always go and buy extra blankets, for starters.”  
With an exasperated groan, Tony turned around and scrubbed his face inside his palms.  
“You're killing me here, Wayne, d'you know that?”  
  
A shuffle, then two hands found their way upon Stark's shoulders and massaged them lightly. “I'd rather save that for later, wedding night and all.” Tony tilted his head back and stared up at the starry sky of Las Vegas. Bruce's hands squeezed one more time, then slipped off his tuxedo jacket. Stark turned back around and stared at him, long and hard. “Two wrongs make a right?” Wayne's eyebrows lifted with cautious optimism.

“Never wrong to begin with. And that's still no yes.” Tony's eyes shone suspiciously bright in the glow of the neon lights of the chapel. “Okay, I... okay. Yes. _Yes_ , you crazy fucker! Let's get the most effing Vegas wedding they have!” The Gothamite inclined his head ever so slightly. “No Elvis though.” Tony shrugged with a debonair smile and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “What about Marilyn?”  
  
“No. You can pick the music though.” Stark pursed his lips. “Fair enough.” He grabbed Bruce by the lapels of his tux and pulled him close. The kiss they shared was warm and gentle at the same time. Then Tony interlinked his fingers with those of his fiancé and dragged him into the chapel. It was empty, except for a bored-looking, smoking clerk who was quick to stub out his cigarette upon their entry.

“Howdy and good evening. We'd like to do it. Here and now.” At Tony's cheeky introduction, Bruce nudged him and pointedly cleared his throat. “Wedding I mean. Make that no Elvis and such, make it to-go, and make it nice. Can you do that?” As soon as each had completed a one-page form, Tony had some trouble remembering his required social security number.

While he set out to give his trusted assistant Potts a late night call, Bruce went to pay $65 to the clerk for the license via his credit card and got told to hurry. “The office of the civil marriage commissioner is less than two blocks down the street. If you hurry and make it before 10 PM, the ceremony can be performed immediately for another $50 - but cash, sonny.”

Wayne thanked him with a nod and stepped out to where Tony was balancing on one leg, phone wedged in between ear and shoulder, scribbling down something on his thigh while making affirmative hums. “... three, two... zero. Perfect. You're a doll. And, erm... no, I don't need a lawyer.” Amused, Bruce leaned a broad shoulder against a pillar and watched his ongoing struggle of stashing away the pen. Tony's eyes shot up.

He shoved a small piece of paper with the scrawled number into Bruce's hands and grinned into the receiver. “Even though I feel like there's a lot to be negotiated here in the future.” With a withering glare Wayne jabbed at his watch, Tony rolled his eyes. “Ah, Pep, sweety pie, I really gotta go. Don't worry – I'm fine. Yes, I know you hate when I say that, but I'm _fine_. Later, hun. Oh, hey - could you look into prenups and such? Thanks!”

Once he had hung up, he exhaled and regarded the dark screen of his mobile with a thoughtful look. “She didn't sound all too happy, but I didn't really get the rest – too much hyperventilated yelling.” Quick to put his phone into airplane mode, Tony then pocketed it inside his tuxedo jacket. “Just realized something, honeybuns: We need a witness. Do we have a witness somewhere?”

Dismayed at both the nickname and the truth behind Tony's statement, Bruce glanced at his watch again. “Course not. And we don't have time to wait and see if another couple shows up.” Tony motioned for him to wait, walked to the entrance of the chapel, and craned his neck to glimpse up and down the Boulevard. He eventually presented Bruce with an elderly gentleman in a hotdog seller outfit. His name tag read 'Lee'.

Tony beamed from him to Wayne and back. “Stan here said he could spare a minute or two. Plus, we'll get free hotdogs afterward!” Even if there were no kitschy Elvis or Marilyn impersonators around, Bruce shook his head with a groan when Chuck Berry's 'You Never Can Tell' resounded over the chapel's sound system. Tony more or less grooved his way down the small aisle, Pulp Fiction style, and his soon-to-be husband let him.

After a brief and, much to Bruce's joy, non-sappy ceremony, the Deputy Commissioner turned to him. “Do you have the rings?” The Gothamite frowned at the outstretched palm. “No. It was a rather... spontaneous decision.” A grin spread across Tony's face like wildfire. “Tattoo wedding rings! Whoot!! Viva Las Vegas!!” Startled looks from both their witness and the Deputy Commissioner. Wayne was quick to refuse.

“Don't you have something for the moment? Like a token?” The man with his sparse ring of hair and rectangular shaped glasses looked at him in dismay. “Do you really want to start your marriage with a token?” Glaring back, Bruce dug into the pocket of his tuxedo pants. Impatient, Tony switched from one foot to the other. “S'okay, I don't mind.” The jangle of metal erupted as Wayne started twisting off the keys to his Honda. 

Once he had produced a silvery key ring he held it up in a triumphant manner. “Here.” Enamored, Tony held out his hand and allowed Bruce to slip the metal band over his finger. It was too big, so he made sure to keep his fingers pointing skywards. When it was his turn, Tony had racked his brain enough to ask their witness Stan to go get him two paperclips from the front desk of the chapel.

To the exasperated stare of the clerk and the amused grin of Bruce, he painstakingly straightened and twined them around each other, then formed the result into a ring, albeit slightly oval. Careful not to scratch skin, he pointed the ends of the paper clips outward before he slipped it onto Bruce's finger. “Tada!” The Gothamite thanked him for his creative input with a mock bow.

It prompted Tony to push his tongue against the inside of his cheek a couple of times, implying an innuendo that made Bruce slap his arm; incensed. The clerk pretended not to notice, cleared his throat, and gestured at them. “By the power vested in me by the State of Nevada, I now pronounce you married. You may kiss.” And so they did; a serious first round, followed by Tony's explicit wish of being dipped Hollywood style.

Handing his StarkPhone over to their witness Stan, Tony blinked long lashes up at the man who held him in his arms. “This pic totally goes on my desk at the office, just so you know.” Bruce's following eye roll lacked any true power. “I guess I should've known what I was getting myself into.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with added art by the incredibly talented Hero! Thank you *so* much dear, I love it!
> 
> http://shirleh.tumblr.com/post/147322788914/these-are-scenes-i-drew-from-the-second-to-last


	32. Chapter 32

After a quick stop at a local jewelry store, they agreed on staying at the Four Seasons for something classy, yet romantic.

“Why didn't I get carried over the threshold? Where is your love for traditions, Gotham hunk?” Bruce locked the door and immediately got busy ridding himself off of his bow tie. "Left at home. Now get naked and onto that bed before I get violent." His growl was real; hazel eyes intense and locked on Tony who all but cooed back at him. “Yes, sweet husband; whatever you say, dearest hubby o'mine.”

The massive titanium ring on his finger glinted in the light of the bedside lamp when Tony began to undress with slow and sensual movements. “You know, I do demand some engraving when we get back home. Make a note.” Bruce kicked off his shoes and started unbuttoning his white dress shirt. “Tell me now what you want it to say – before your mouth is going to be too busy for the rest of the night.”

At the rough tone, Stark arched a dark eyebrow upwards. “Feeling frisky there alright, aren't we?” A glower and a discarded shirt thrown into his direction prompted Tony to grin and stretch out his gloriously naked physique all over the king-size bed. “Can't go wrong with something Latin.” The mattress dipped in as Bruce then joined him and draped himself atop of his body. "Ubi concordia, ibi victoria.“*  
  
From where Bruce breathed the words into his ear, a slight shiver ran through Tony.  
“You speak Latin?”  
The Gothamite still wore the same deadpan expression from before.

“It's a dead language, but yes.”

“That makes me horny.”

“Finally.”

“I'm almost always horny, just FYI.”

“Well, good.”

Bruce then started to make use of his hands, fingers, and mouth. It left Tony to take on the passive role and allow him to explore and stake out territory that was new to them both. The first time he felt Bruce enter him was foreign, but soon became nothing short of blissful. Their second time together was far less frantic than back at the Hamptons as their bodies molded in rhythmic unison, like parts of a puzzle.

When Tony was unable to crack his ever-present jokes in favor of groaning out his partner's name, Bruce knew he was doing something right. Later, when their panting had subsided and they let the air condition cool off their sweated skin, they lay side by side on their backs and stared at the ceiling. A glimpse at the bright digits of the alarm clock on the nightstand revealed it was a little after midnight.

The pillow rustled as Tony turned to look at his partner. “There's one thing you gotta be aware of though.” Bruce ran both palms through his dampened hair and finger-combed it back. “That would be what?” His husband rolled onto his left to face him with a smug, sated grin. “This is a Chevy household, my love. You're gonna have to kiss your sad excuse of wheels goodbye.”

Bruce said nothing for a while, up to the point where Tony simply scooted over and moved on top of him. “Can I get a reaction? Revolt? Shock? Disgust? Compliance? Compliance would be most appreciated.” His fingers traced along the identical titanium band on his husband's left hand. “You didn't marry me for compliance.” At Bruce's gruff retort, Tony huffed and rearranged himself on his muscled, human mattress.

“That's right, I didn't. What _did_ I marry you for though? Money?”  
  
“No.”  
With an affirmative hum, Tony tilted his pelvis into Bruce's and put his chin upon folded palms.  
“Right, no. Your... all-encompassing sense of humor maybe?”  
  
“Close, but no cigar.”  
Starting to feel some kind of bodily reaction to his grinding, Tony grinned like a Cheshire Cat.  
“Ah, now I remember! Your glorious dick and your real fine ass. That was it!”

“Spoken like a true poet.”  
With their growing arousals trapped in between them, Tony slid higher, on the quest for Bruce's mouth.  
“Shut up and kiss me already.”

  
_~epilogue~_

The drumming upon the small, metal steering wheel made a clinking sound whenever the band on his ring finger tapped against it. “Can we finally go?” Some rustling inside his helmet, then a deep baritone answered him. “Impatient, aren't we?” Bruce pursed his lips in irritation and put on his gloves. “Stop touching up your makeup there and move it.” Tutting sounds could be heard, then a singsong voice answered him.  
  
“Fuck you, too, sweetheart.”

“Man! Any more of this mushy-gushy stuff and I'll have to rethink working for this joint.”  
James Rhodes' suppressed laughter could be heard over the line. Bruce pressed the talk button.  
“You heard that? Do something. You brought him into this marriage if I may remind you.”  
  
Feeling attacked, Tony responded with a drawn out huff. “Oh yeah, of course, once they're making trouble, it's _'They are from your part of the family.'_ ” The circumspect voice of Alfred Pennyworth interrupted another round of post-martial banter. “Master Bruce, Master Anthony – please refrain from further making the team uncomfortable. Thank you.” Someone clapped over the comm, probably Rhodes.

Tony raised two fingers at his helmet in a casual salute. “Sure thing, Alf. This has been a PSA from your team manager, everybody.” With a final thumbs up at Happy Hogan, Tony pressed the start button. A roar, then his brand new Chevrolet SS sprang to life. The 6.2-liter, V8 was 2014's brand new model and came in fading red-black for Tony and black-yellow for Bruce. Tony pressed the comm again.  
  
“In turn, I'd like to remind my darling assistant Miss Potts that the pit box still is no place for stilettos. Especially those stilettos paired with short shorts. Seriously sugar plum; with me and B out there racing, who's going to save you from being hit on by all those rednecks out there?” Pepper leaned forward to be able to speak into Rhodey's microphone. “Lucius and Jim are here. You better focus on Daytona, Anthony.”  
  
A retching sound followed her use of his full name. Then Bruce intervened. “Thank you, Pepper, for having a way of shutting him up when no one else could.” The redhead waved down at him from her spot in the box. “You're more than welcome, Bruce.” Tony made another, yet again very inappropriate noise with his mouth. “Conspiracy, conspiracy everywhere. Okay, cut the crap - let's rock and roll, everybody!”  
  
Inside his own cockpit, the Gothamite then did a last once-over across the dash before he, too, pressed ignition.  
Both Chevys glinted in the bright, Floridian sun as they roared out onto the International Speedway.  
The one thing they had in common was their name tag high up on the windshield.  
  
It read 'Stark-Wayne'

**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ubi concordia, ibi victoria. - Where there is unity, there is victory.
> 
> Oookay now, looks like this is it. We made it to the finish line.
> 
> A huge THANK YOU!!! to all of you who read, kudo'ed and commented - it's been a crazy ride with this AU, but I hope it was fun to read nonetheless. My sincerest gratitude to Completelybatty for spurring me on with constantly supportive comments throughout the whole story! Without you and your plot bunnies, I wouldn't even be considering a sequel to this...let's see if I get one of them to latch onto my WIP folder in the forseeable future :)) 
> 
> Last but not least - dear Batsocks, muse, ever-loving enabler of all things wonderfully gay and superhero-ish... I am sorry about the distinct lack of porn in this one. I hope to make it up to you in another fic. Until then, go on and give me all the recs so I can improve my game <3
> 
> starkind out ~


End file.
